Chapter Text
Cyprian had pointed out the cleft in the mountain to her hours ago, and they’d picked their way over to it in the silence that had become their third companion lately. Athven had gotten used to his silence, and if a few weeks–days–ago, anyone had told her that she would come to understand Cyprian’s gestures and facial expressions as a second language, she would not have believed them.
The sun was starting to set, casting their shadows long in front of them, as they reached the approach to the cave. It would be a good spot for the night, she thought. She’d been trying more and more to think like, well, not an Astartes but at least the Astra Militarum. More easily defensible.
She hadn’t asked Cyprian how many rounds he still had in his bolter, and he did not volunteer that information, but she assumed that ammunition should be strictly conserved. As she had to conserve food, only able to carry the ship’s pack of emergency rations, which was mostly Astartes nutrient goo. Which tasted awful to her, and she could only eat in small, small doses, and even then, it left her stomach upset. He’d said it was no more than 5 days of walking. She wondered if she slowed him down, but she had worked to conserve her food consumption.
On the second day, he had found water, gesturing her over before slicing the top off of some sort of vegetation. Cyprian had unsealed his helmet, squeezing some of it into his own mouth, and she knew he was using his organs like his praeomnor to test the liquid.
He had nodded, handing the rest of it over to her, though she knew from the way he rolled the mouthful of liquid around that he must have also suffered from thirst.
He tapped her shoulder, easing in front of her into the darkened mouth of the cave, combat knife in one hand. He stopped, abruptly, just inside–she could see the fading light just picking out the golden elements on his greaves, and small prisms of light cast by the swing of one of his Honors.
She slipped in front of him, cautious, and curious. What had gotten him to go so suddenly still?
A Space Marine, or at least the body of one, in armor that was mostly black. Dead?
Athven moved to check. By now she had learned enough about their armor, her smaller fingers finding a spot along the wrist, just under the palmar plating, to feel for a pulse.
She felt Cyprian move at the same instant that the figure in black armor suddenly twitched. Cyprian caught her by the shoulder, yanking her back, one of his chainswords locking teeth against another blade, which swung so close by Athven that she felt a razor of cold against her arm.
Cyprian leaned in, dropping his knee against the other’s chest, where his body had been slumped against the cave wall. He spoke his first word in days. “Stop.”
The head whipped around and Athven could see one side of the visor shattered, and blackened, dried blood coating the ceramite that remained. He tried to wield his sword again, but Cyprian had stepped on it. Still, he tried, jerking at the blade with effort enough to jar his whole shoulder.
Athven found her voice. “Please. We mean you no harm.”
The remaining red lens turned toward her. “Liar.” The voice was thick with disuse. How long had he been here?
“Brother,” and she saw him flinch at the word. She tried to keep her tone soothing. “I am Sister Athven of the Hospitallers. I cannot lie. I mean you no harm.”
The other struggled, grunting. “He does.”
“That is Veteran Brother Cyprian. He will not harm you either.”
Cyprian growled, but slowly, slowly, eased his pressure off the other’s chest.
“And you are?” She stepped closer, stretching out a hand, in welcome.
“Initiate Brother Kessalt, The Righteous Crusade.”
She had studied these in her charts. “A Templar.” The helmet inclined a fraction in assent.
“He is?” The Templar was careful not to move beyond his head, wary of Cyprian, and dubious of his intent.
“Ultramarine.”
Kessalt seemed to relax, just a fraction. Athven decided to press her advantage. “May I see your injuries, Brother Kessalt?”
“No.” Flat denial, like the slap of a blade.
“Brother–”
Cyprian held a palm out to her, to silence her, then curled the palm, pointing with one finger to the cut the other’s blade had made on her arm. A few drops of blood wet the fabric. Nothing dangerous. A scratch. Not even worth bandaging. She looked up, uncomprehending, until Cyprian jerked his head toward the Templar.
“Brother.” Why not. It might work. If only she could find a way to explain it. She wished Cyprian would speak, explain it in terms a Space Marine could understand. “You have your omophagos. I can let you…” Taste me? It was absurd. It felt absurd. But it would not be absurd if it worked.
He considered, for a long moment. “If this is some trick….”
“I would be in range for you to take vengeance.” Simple logic, and she had a strange realization that months ago, she would never have thought like this.
“You would be,” Kessalt agreed. “All right.” He removed his helmet with one hand, and she could see the damage was even worse than she’d thought. The one eye was completely missing. An augment was an option…back at a proper facility. The other looked clouded, the eyelid bloodied and swollen. She wondered if he could see at all.
But that was for later. She stepped closer, scuffing her boots on the ground so he could track her, and then stepped over the bend of his legs, reaching up with two fingers, fresh with blood from her small cut.
As her fingers brushed his lips, he grabbed her forearm with one hand, her whole forearm almost disappearing beneath the black armor of his hand. Half to guide her, half to squeeze, tightly, to remind her how close she was to the razor’s edge of a Black Templar’s good graces.
But he did part his lips and she felt him taste the blood, at first gingerly, expecting poison, from her fingertips. She hoped it had the same effect it had on Cyprian–soothing, calming something. He looked like he could use the relief.
He tipped his head back against the wall of the cave, against the support of his armor, for a long moment, and she knew the surrender it meant–the vulnerability of the bared throat, as he let his omophagos work. It was probably the first PO anything he had had in…how long? She would have to ascertain that.
Cyprian twitched behind her, the chainsword throttling like a low growl, as Kessalt turned and spit.
“Too sweet,” he said, mouth working. “But you are as you say you are.”
That was something. She would cling to it. She reached behind her with her left hand–her right still held in the Templar’s grip, for the narthecium she had magna clamped against the back of her armor. It was her weaker hand and she wasn’t used to this angle or leverage and–she was grateful when Cyprian, behind her, simply reached forward and released it for her.
“Narthecium,” she said, getting it in front of her, holding it out for the Templar to inspect. “If you would allow me.”
He released her hand, and both of his explored the tool. “Small,” he said.
“As am I,” Athven said, evenly. As he knew, since he had just had her entire arm in his grip.
He tilted his head up, baring that gap in his throat again. That was as close to consent as she could hope for. “Healing agent,” she said, “and a mild sedati–”
“No. No sedation.”
“It might help.”
His head, blinded and all, revolved toward her. “Sister, I have been in suspended animation for five decades. The last thing I need, or require, is more.” Or to be helpless around strangers, she thought.
Well, that was one answer gotten. She nodded, then remembered he could not see. “All right. Healing agent only. And then I…have to clean your eye.”
She saw his mouth pull down. She didn’t blame him. “How bad is it.”
“Your left eye is gone. It can be fitted with an augment if the neural damage allows it.”
He seemed satisfied with that.
She sidestepped, having to step over one of his armored thighs to get a look at the other. “Can you see anything from this?” She waved a hand in front of him.
“Shadows. Loose shapes.”
It was something. “This might heal with aid.”
“Might.”
“It has been five decades, you said, in sus-an. Without healing agent. That might change the prognosis.”
He pressed his lips together. Was she blaming him? For doing the only thing he could have done? “When will you know?”
“In a few days.”
He blew air out of the sides of his mouth, frustrated. “Too long.”
“The body–-even an Astartes body–-heals at its own pace, Brother Kessalt.” She had had practice, a great deal of it, dealing with this sort of impatience with the Ultramarines.
“I am useless in the meantime, expected to endure solely on hope.” He spat the last word like it was blasphemy.
Cyprian stepped forward, kicking the sole of the Templar’s boot.
Athven translated, or at least she hoped that’s what she was doing. “You will not endure alone, Brother Kessalt.”
Cyprian jerked his head in a nod. She’d read him right.
“Does he not speak?” Kessalt, annoyed. “He spoke before.”
“The Veteran Brother took an Oath of Moment, long ago.”
Kessalt’s face turned toward Cyprian, and she could almost feel him trying to force his eyes to see. He understood the power of an oath of that sort, and that it added to Cyprian’s weight. Old enough, survived enough, to have done the old ritual. “And he is with you.”
“There is a Hospitaller outpost he was escorting me to. Our ship’s engine was sabotaged. The pilot died.” All the equipment she was to bring, lost or left behind under the magnetic storm that whirled over the planet’s southern pole. “We are trying to make our way back, but our navigational abilities are…thwarted by the magnetic storms.”
The Templar nodded, as though accepting the data. “They were a problem for me as well.” Half a century ago. Cyprian crossed to the mouth of the cave, which had gone from a place of light to darkness. The cave itself became lit only from lumens on Athven’s armor.
“Come with us,” Athven said. “We can get you to a facility where you could be fitted for an augment.”
“No.”
If Athven had a finger for each time an Astartes had responded to a perfectly reasonable request with a flat denial, she would have an alarming number of fingers. “May I ask why?”
“You will slow me down.”
Cyprian made a derisive sound, from the mouth of the cave.
Athven shot a look at him he did not see, either, his back turned toward them, studying the outside. “Brother Kessalt.” Could he be talked into reason? “You have visual difficulties.”
“Which might resolve.”
She began again. “You are vulnerable right now.” Oh. She knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Even Cyprian tensed up, turning to look at her as though she had lost her mind.
“I meant–-”
“I do not need the assistance of a Hospitaller and an Ultramarine.” Kessalt might not be able to see, but his scorn was unmistakable.
A sound and before Athven could track the source, Cyprian’s combat knife slammed into the wall by Kessalt’s head, close enough that the Templar could have felt the breeze on his cheek, the blade scraping against the metal of his pauldron ridge. Cyprian, proving a point.
“You missed.”
A bark of laughter from Cyprian, as he stepped backwards, jerking his knife out from the stone of the cave wall, tapping the hilt twice on the Templar’s pauldron, and then slapping him on the side of the head.
“Cyprian!” Athven couldn’t, and didn’t try very hard to, keep the shock out of her voice. “He is injured!”
Kessalt growled, one hand clawing blindly at where Cyprian had been, catching only empty air, and then he subsided, snarling.
Cyprian had proved his point.
“I will go with you. In the morning.” Every word sounded like it hurt, being dragged over humility like razor blades.
Athven wavered between the two of them, unsure if, or, even how she could intervene if she needed, but they seemed to have settled something between them: Cyprian stepped back to the mouth of the cave, kneeling in his vigil position, and Kessalt turned back to her. “Finish binding my wound,” he said, putting a bit more acid than he had to into the words. She understood why. His status had just been challenged and he had been forced to admit weakness. “Yes, my lord,” she said, her voice soft and submissive. Let him take back his power. She did not mind.
She padded the missing eye as best she could, and secured an eyeshield over the other, adding without telling him one of her own analgesic ointments, to hopefully reduce the swelling, before wrapping them both with a bandage. “Darkness may help your eye heal–-less demand on its neurons.” He nodded, assenting. “Do you have any other injuries?”
He shook his head. “Nothing that matters.”
She could press, but he had been pressed enough. “I trust you will tell me.”
He flattened his mouth.
“Brother, I have a favor to ask.” She was using every trick she knew to soothe his pride.
“What.” His voice was flat, but he was asking.
“It is cold. May I sleep near you? For your warmth?”
His mouth twitched, at the thought of being that close to a mortal. “Fine.” It was as good as she was going to get, but it was something, and she knew when to stop.
“Thank you,” she said, and then folded herself down, settling in the triangle between his legs, where she could best catch the heat from the seams of his armor, pulling her hood over her head.