Work Text:
On the craftworld Poallorch, which rested in the materium in the western nebulaic sector, not from a webway gate of the old empire, the performers danced onto the stage.
Malail was the first of them, the master of the troupe, and he donned the mist-blue mask that was his costume for this performance, to take the role of The Whispering. Across from him, there were four other performers: Aenewa as the Merciful, Athiawen as the Bloody-Handed, and Eloric as the Laughing God. Often in the past, the Master would don the mask of the Laughing God, to show the face of Cegorach, who tricks and weaves his way through the webway.
Aside from the role of the Solitaire, it had been said that Cegorach was the hardest role to play. Deadly, perfect, slippery, like mist and shadow between the fingers. A player might spend decades mastering just one aspect of Cegorach. But a more difficult role had emerged, used only in this play: that of Ynnead. And what a role it would be, too challenging for almost anyone to play. For this new era, a new order was needed, and players had to adapt, as heirs of the Laughing God always must. And Malail was not just anyone, or even any Troupe Master.
So, Malail donned the mask, blue and black, hazy and smelling of the dead, and he became the Whispering God, half-nascent, half-slumbering, and dripping in power. His holo-suit flickering in blue and purple, he danced out onto the stage.
Gasps, from all the crowd. The emotions washed over Malail: Silence. Reverence. Fear.
To a Harlequin, a gasp of awe is as delightful as applause, as uplifting as laughter. He reveled in it.
Thousands of Aeldari faces gazed out to him as the mist rolled off his holo-suit. He danced into the middle of the stage, and the music swelled The other performers flipped away, and the lighting, naturally shining off reflective wraithbone, focused on him. Darkness fell across the stage, and the silence was exquisite, the kind of silence you can only experience in the heart of a Craftworld.
“Tonight,” he announced, “We have a show you won’t soon forget, dear friends. Tonight, we dance to a new vision of the Rhana Dandra.”
His voice rose with each syllable, until he was screaming the last two words. But why was he screaming? No, no time for that now. The show must go on!
They danced, they sang, and their opening number came to a close at last. The curtain fell, giving the performers respite before the first act, but Malail could sense the mixture of apprehension and excitement from the crowd. All previous visions and portrayals of the End of All Days had been performed before the birth of Ynnead, before the dawn of the new god, who promised death, glory, and resurrection, and whose words were not trusted by all. A chance, then: to set the stage. And nobody could set the stage like Malail.
The intermission was over.
The curtain raised, and he lifted a hand. Silence once more, but not expectant: it was pregnant with fear, the entire audience was drawn inwards, like a held breath, ready to witness something new, read to witness something terrible.
Now, for the solo.
Malail sang. He began with familiar songs: songs of battle. Then came songs of the dead, returning to serve. And at last, songs of souls kept in a whispering dream, something both born from but entirely different from the infinity circuit. Dreamless sleep washed away into signs of battle, a waking dream, necromancy most desperate, souls torn from their rest and locked into wraithbone frames to fight: death is no respite from war.
Then, the fog rose again. Mist encircled him, cradled him, lifted him up, above the commotion of battle, above the confusion of the waking dead, of souls stirred from the infinity circuit, and above the crowd. The light was on him, as his mask of Ynnead shone down on the audience, and he felt like Ynnead itself. The Rhana Dandra was different, now, and Ynnead surveyed the vision that was danced into existence: a new vision for the end of all days.
The other three performers came out. Athiawen, in her raiment of blood, sprayed blood over dark sets, dancing and showing the mighty, powerful motions of the god of murder. Eloric, in his smiling mask, spun between hoops and tightropes, dancing faster with each beat, faster than possible for any Aeldari. And Aenewa, with her green gown and gentle touch, brought peace to the hearts of the audience.
At last, Malail stepped forward again, blue light rained down on him, and they struck their final pose. Khaine, his hand bloody and the Wailing Doom held aloft. Cegorach, suspended on wires and rippling with laughter. Isha, her arms outstretched, light surrounding her. And Ynnead, in front of them all, rising from the ground, dark clouds surrounding her: clouds of death. Whose death, wondered Malail: yours, theirs, or all of ours?
But his voice was without doubt:
“And Ynnead does promise death,” said Malail, throwing his voice over the audience, “for she is a goddess of death. She is a goddess of our dead, made of us, made of our future, and she is born - so death is her promise…”
And then, the scene lit up, the colors inverting, casting broad shadows in every direction. The entire audience was holding its breath, a single psionic web of emotion binding them together.
And he smiled, the holofilaments of his mask projecting the smile onto the visage of the God of Death, newly born.
“Yes, Death - but not just for us!”
The sound of victory, fireworks, a fanfare of trumpets: the Rhana Dandra death, rebirth... and immortality.
The final gong sounded, and the lights went out.
The curtain fell to thunderous applause, in this world and in the psychic realm.