Chapter Text
Pop. Crack.
The unlovely sound of knuckles cracking was amplified by the acoustics of the cavernous prison hold, and by the inhumanly large size of the joints.
Crack. Snap.
“Stop that,” came a voice from the shadows. It was haughty– some would say snide– and superior in tone. “It’s profoundly irritating.”
Pop. Crack.
The unpleasant noises continued, but with increased volume and frequency.
“I’m going to initiate a personal jailbreak just to mutilate your hands,” the contemptuous voice continued. Its particular musical quality was at odds with the gruesome nature of the threat.
A low voice, grinding like rockcrete on plasteel, rumbled from the darkness. “You can try,” it said.
A new voice joined the chorus, and it sounded even softer and more gentle as it rang out over that of the speaker previous. “Ah, but you’re only one man,” it said, with a note of some concern. “They’ll just throw you back in, once the guards arrive.”
The melodic voice scoffed. “That’s all right. I don’t need to escape.” His voice lowered in pitch, infused with an ominous pall. “Just break his fingers.”
The knuckle-popper spoke mockingly: “Shouldn’t the sound be music to your ears? I can smell what you are from here. I thought that Fulgrim’s sons embraced noise.”
“Actually–”
But the soft and gentle voice was swept aside, and was easily spoken over. “Sound,” the irritated Emperor’s Child began, “is a precious blessing, greater than gold or adamantium; ceramite or bolter shells on the battlefield. The power inherent in a crescendo; the lethality of measured rhythm: all of these things can kill in ways more perfect and beautiful than your filthy hands ever will.” He paused for insulting effect. The soft voice mm-ed in appreciative assent. The target of the jibe growled in the dark.
“But we are not currently fighting– unfortunately– and sound and noise and music bring pleasure when off of the field of battle, as well. But it is intention, brute– a fantasy painstakingly and carefully sewn into the fabric of sound, that creates beauty from the enthralling vibrations and sensual curves of the waves that enter your appalling ears.” As he warmed to his subject, he was rewarded with a derisive snort from one corner of the dark, and tragically echoing awkward applause from one set of hands.
“True noise would be a welcome distraction,” he finished. “You’re just wasting sound.”
There was relative silence in the prison hold, then. All that could be heard for a moment was the eternal background hum of the ship, and the myriad complaints of its hull as it sailed smoothly through the void.
Pop. Crack.
“It’s been so long since I broke some fingers…” The smooth, mournful voice in the dark was a new one.
“Who was that?” asked the soft and gentle one.
“Indeed. I myself was under the impression that that black cell was empty.”
“Who was that?” asked the warrior of the IIIrd.
“Oh, no one of consequence,” demurred a new, distinguished voice.
The Emperor’s Child sighed somewhat exaggeratedly. “How tedious.”
The soft and gentle soul seemed to agree once more with the put-upon son of Fulgrim. “Yes,” he said, with a touch of enthusiasm. “Can we all go around the gaol and introduce ourselves?”
“No.”
“I am Dianthus,” began the Emperor’s Child, ignoring the refusal of he who popped his joints without artistic purpose. “Of, yes, the glorious IIIrd. It seems as though you may already have heard of me,” he suggested, without sounding even the slightest bit surprised.
“No.”
The mournful breaker of fingers ignored the grumbling one, too. “Of course one of Fulgrim’s couldn’t help but introduce himself,” he said with more cordiality than mockery. “I am Szaareth Zahn, the son of a sunless world, though of course I do not currently stand in midnight clad. My brothers called me Szaar.”
“Oh really.” It seemed that Dianthus couldn’t help but provide a reply.
“And I am Omri An-Sa’nara, proud son of Lorgar. Stranger,” he said, as he addressed one of the men that still remained unnamed, “it does not matter if you are no one of consequence. Every one of us is special to the Four in our own unique way. By what name might we call you?”
“Oh,” said the inconsequential individual. “How kind. I am Amenirdis Qar, ever your obedient servant.”
“And that would be everyone,” Dianthus sighed. “Except for Knuckles.”
“You won’t call me that,” the final man rasped. “You’ll call me Carnyx Thronn.” He let out a long, slow breath like a rockfall off a cliff. “I wear the stripes of the IVth, but what does such loyalty matter to anyone if our primarch won’t crawl out of his castle to lead us?”
“There are many rewards, Carnyx Thronn, in both having faith, and being true to who you are,” Omri told him.
“Not a bad question, in truth…” Dianthus murmured, ignoring the Word Bearer once again.
“Does a legion need a primarch to maintain its brotherhood?” This, from Szaareth Zahn. His words were earnest, and appeared to be a true interrogation of belief as opposed to a harsh and final judgement.
Carnyx did not seem ready to engage in a discussion philosophical. He swore, accompanied by the sound of grinding, untended augmetics. “I need to get out of here.”
One single clap echoed throughout the pitch-dark hold. “A fine idea!” Amenirdis said.
“Ah, but when it was my idea, it would only lead to me being thrown unceremoniously back into my cell,” Dianthus pouted.
“No, no,” tutted Amenirdis mildly. “It won’t just be our new iron friend here on a one-man mission, as it were. We could all escape,” he said, “together.”
“Our mysterious cousin has graduated from ‘tedious’ to ‘amusing,’” Dianthus declared.
“It would certainly be better than being killed…” Omri sounded hopeful.
“Or tortured again,” added the Night Lord.
Dianthus hummed thoughtfully. “You know, I found that I didn’t mind the torture.”
“Of course,” growled Carnyx.
“However, I simply cannot be killed,” continued Dianthus. “For I have many more to do.”
“What?” asked Szaareth.
“I have much more to do,” amended Dianthus.
“But how will we do it?” asked Omri, in an attempt to tip the conversation back upon its rails. “We don’t have access to our weapons or our armour, and we’re on a ship full of slaves to the Anathema who are looking for any excuse to destroy us.”
“And we don’t have a ship,” finished Carnyx.
“Not to worry, friends,” said Amenirdis lightly.
“Friends?” repeated both Dianthus and Carnyx, una voce.
“Because,” continued Amenirdis Qar, “I have a plan.”