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"A future that doesn’t exist?"
The temperature in the officers' cabin drops several degrees, and the skin on Heinrix's arms and back gets covered with goosebumps, and his palm naturally reaches for the hilt of the sword... but no. The body's habitual reactions deceive the Interrogator: there is no warp sorcery happening here, just words.
His own words, repeated by Rogue Trader Isabella von Valancius.
Silence hangs in the air, and Heinrix momentarily regrets that he only imagined the demonic invasion: dealing with the spawns of the warp is much easier than... than this.
“I hoped I wouldn’t have to say this out loud,” Heinrix rubs the bridge of his nose in an attempt to hide his eyes. “I am grateful to Him for every day that I can spend with you, but I know how little time we have been given. Spending it dreaming of the impossible..."
"Irrational?" Isabella suggests. "This is true. But I thought I was on a date with an Inquisitorial Interrogator, not with an Adeptus Mechanicus."
The corner of her mouth twitches slightly, but years of training and field experience now can't help Heinrix understand what is hidden behind this fleeting movement. Fury? Bitterness? Mockery? Isabella is too much like him for him to read her. A psyker, a telepath, accustomed to guarding her mind like a fortress so no enemy can get in.
And not a single thought can get out.
“You’re right, Isabella,” Heinrix has to choose his words carefully, catching every sparkle in her eyes, every change in her face. “Especially that part about serving the Inquisition. We are all hostages of duty, and if my master gives me a new assignment..."
She nods, indicating there is no need to continue, and craven joy flares up in Heinrix's chest. But not for long, because Isabella says:
"I understand. You'll have to make a decision."
"Make a decision?" He shakes his head. "The decision will be made for me. I swore to serve, I no longer belong to myself."
“Yes,” Isabella agrees, looking into his eyes. "If that is what you chose."
Heinrix flinches as if she slapped him, but she doesn’t stop:
“Like you, I serve the Imperium. But I only have one life, and I’m not going to give it all away,” her palm covers his, pressing it to the tabletop. "And you? Do you really want this?"
"I…"
The words fill his throat with a bitter lump. There's too much he needs to say. There is too much he can not say.
I want, Heinrix thinks, I want to serve the God-Emperor, to be his eye and his sword. I want to fall asleep holding you in my arms, while the fragile shell of your ship protects us from the horrors of the warp. I want to save the Imperium from the enemies of Mankind. I want to save you from your enemies, all of them. I want to go back in time and never meet you. I want to give my life to you or for you.
Isabella is waiting, and Heinrix need to answer something, so he opens his mouth:
"I want..."
"I'm sorry", Isabella interrupts him. "You're right about everything. You just return my own words to me, but I don’t want to listen to them. I myself recently told you that we have too little time to waste on all sorts of nonsense."
She tilts her head to her shoulder and adds:
"In the Dark City, remember?"
Heinrix remembers: echoes of excruciating pain throughout his body and her hands clasped behind his back; the chill of the Commorragh's night creeping across his skin, the air filled with a thousand longing glances, and another glance - direct, demanding - of Isabella’s dark eyes; anger and fatigue in her voice, and the irresistible power of her touch, and her smile, the same as she has now...
The iron jaws unclench slightly on Heinrix's heart, and the tension he didn't notice before leaves his cramped shoulders: no, he has not lost her. Not yet.
“I ruined the evening, didn’t I?”
“The fault is entirely mine,” Heinrix carefully releases his hand and cups Isabella’s cheek. “If you allow me, I will try to make it up to you. In your chambers."
"My chambers?" She raises her eyebrows slightly, then shakes her head. "I have a better idea."
Before Heinrix can say a word, she takes his hand and presses her lips to his palm. Her tongue slides along his fingers, teeth softly grab the skin, and Heinrix breathes out her name:
"Isabella..."
He doesn’t try to stop her or reason with her: after all, this is her cabin, her ship, her protectorate. Rogue Trader von Valantius is truly free to do whatever she desires and right now she desires...
Heinrix barely holds a scream of pain when Isabella sinks her teeth into his palm, between his thumb and forefinger.
Heinrix's first impulse is to pull out his hand, paying the predator with a piece of his own flesh in exchange for freedom. But Heinrix suppresses it, habitually, like all these years when he allowed the Imperium to bite into his body and soul, tearing himself to pieces because it was necessary because it was his duty.
After all, a biomancer can always heal himself, grow new meat, and create new blood to give to a good cause.
Isabella looks into his eyes, and in her gaze, there is no rage, no bitterness, and no mockery, only confidence in what she is doing.
Finally, Isabella lets him go. A hoarse order comes from her bloody lips:
"Don't heal it. Let the scar remain."
She gets up and leaves, and Heinrix watches her go as blood runs down his palm and drips onto the tablecloth.
Heinrix carries out her order. It's been so long since he'd let his wounds heal on their own that he'd forgotten what it was like to feel broken, insufficiently effective.
Vulnerable.
Abelard reminds him, winning three sparring matches in a row, and Lady Cassia notices the blood leaking through the fabric of Heinrix's glove. Even this witch Tlass feels something, but Heinrix drives her away before she can finish the word “decision.”
The wound gets covered with new skin, soft, tender, and pale - the imprint of Isabella's teeth left for him as a keepsake. Heinrix feels it even when he doesn't see it.
He knows: when the day comes and the decision is made for him, he will make a choice.
But he doesn’t know yet who he will choose.