Chapter Text
If her angel survived the reinforcement in the Sak'trada campaign, he may be deployed for garrison duties, his genesire and their Lord promised.
Pressing the tips of her fingers against each other, Amaya couldn't stop thinking about how Kydomor, her Kydomor would be able to survive a race that was able to speed up time to a degree where even space marines came out horribly aged. Yes, the Graphite Lady claimed to have developed weapons together with Warsmith Bronn and the former Triach Dantioch. That these would be able to withstand the rapid decay of these xenos. That perhaps the First Captain with his shock tactic expertise as well as part of the Stor-Bezaskh, now equilped with these strange weapons would finally put an end to these terrible creatures reign.
"My Lord?"
Her neck has long been adapted to the hurt she felt from looking up so much these days. While she was grateful to have had the presence of the Lord of Iron himself, he could be a rather... cumbersome man to talk to.
"No, they haven't returned. No, I'm not interested in running another simulation. Yes, they will break through. I'd expect nothing less."
He didn't even glance at the woman standing beside him running through possibilities for the next campaign to come.
"I wasn't asking any of that." said Amaya, barely able to keep herself from profusely apologizing to this apex of cold ruthlessness. She didn't do anything wrong, yet Perturabo treated her as if each movement, each word she said and each action she made was fundamentally flawed. Did Kydomor have to endure this treatment all the time?
He did give her now the dignity to take the faintest of glances. Pulse not life threatening high, trembling most likely as a stress response and that damned praying gesture some antidote against certain warp entities or just a plea. Either way, looking at her slightly disgusted him and he turned back to his calculations, data slates depicting his thought processes with astonshing speed for later possible iteration.
"If you don't mind answering, how came Forrix to be preferred by you, my Lord?"
Perturabo grunted as the transmission to the data slates apruptly came to a halt, a single yet unfilled one suddenly forming texts so long, she couldn't even read the words before they disappeared out of the size of the screen. Two seconds and her companion's father pointed to said slate, the regret in him allowing her near him in his work times visible on his face and audible in a small tongue smack.
"Here it is, now get it and leave." Quickly picking the slate up, she practically fled the chamber in the strategium he's been almost residing in for at least two weeks now, feeling the tightness in her chest that wasn't burn-related simmer down. Similar to her, his Graphite Lady and his most trusted sons weren't there to accompany him. And she only really had a serf couple to talk with, and only on vox calls by decree of Perturabo. They were both lonely together and at first it seemed like he'd have something akin to light amusement in her fundamentally guerrilla approach in the simulations she had the honor to run with him. But then word from the Warmaster, the Primarch of the Sons of Horus arose that a strange planet started phasing in and out of existence in various star systems in the Olympian sector, and he became extremely distant, cold and quietly condescending.
How did the Graphite Lady stand him? And how could she say that he used to be worse than he was now? The relative isolation truly started to gnaw on her and no one helped her alleviate that, especially the one who must've felt just as lonely as she.
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Forrix' room. Her and her angel's room, way different from most other sleeping quarters, as sturdy plants, small portraits of them and their son and snippets of small prose decorated the minimalist furniture. She'd even learned to weld and color metal from the Graphite Lady, having added small ornaments of both their cultural origins. Even his work chair was a teal color. Adjusting it to her height, the plasteel felt cold when she was sitting up, before having to adjust it to Forrix' height again to properly use his work desk.
But before she would start to read what basically was what she never got to ask Forrix was, she simply wished to hear him again. And so she did, a fine tuned vocaskull tuned to simulate the acoustics of a real person speaking to her. The audio was a little choppy and by far not as clear as a vox call, but it was to be worked with.
'Amaya. Do not think it impossible that I will not die there. I'm an Iron Warrior after all, no matter my rank. Everyone who is involved in the the engine of atritional warfare for long enough will meet his end. And so, considering this may be the last message I will ever make, I have to say that it is such an unlikely outcome that we ended up in the relations we are now.
Know that I'll let you be my end a thousand times over, if it means that you will live and thrive for just another year. Know that as much as you owe your well-being to me, you have considerably improved my outlook on more issues than I would be able to speak of. I am glad that you are mine, and by the Emperor, should Aaron and I survive this, you will have me, all the time.
I will keep you safe, in life or in death, directly, or through my men. The few of my men guarding you better know to treat you with the respect that you are owed, or they do not deserve to serve under my leadership. May my genesire see the good in you I see, and do not disrespect him by being overtly apologetic. Reason and agreeing seem to calm him a little bit, so please do not take his demeanor to heart. Unless he says otherwise, you should be able to move across the entire fleet, although I highly recommend one or two of my subordinates to accompany you.
I cannot wait to keep you as close as possible. Over the years past, your figure somehow unaged itself. Parts of your curlage may start to turn grey, but you appear younger, healthier and stronger each time I come back from another campaign. I cannot wait to see your unscarred body change once more, where your skin has stretched to embolden the repaired aquillas by the tone of your muscle. I cannot wait to see you, stronger than before, more beautiful than before, more emboldened to find new ways to test my will."
The chuckle always did things to her, no matter how much it'd become a ritual to look into the vocaskulls dead eye sockets, lightly stroking it's cheekbone.
"Should I come back, prepare. Given the difficulty of the campaign, you may be looking at five years of abstinence, of yearning and the sheer will to leave you bruised and broken. Prepare for me to crash your pretty head down and make your legs useless. You wouldn't need them anyways, except to pull me in deeper. To confirm that you are just as obsessed with me as I am with you. Fuck, to see you cry for me not in fear, but in the knowledge that the wish that kept you alive all those years is has gone completely insane over you. You'll have your wish, over and over until you die, and even then you will be remembered as my woman, mine to make me remember the good in humanity, my legions to cull out the traitors amongst the baselines and yours to never compromise yourself again.
I just hope that after this campaign, you'll still feel the same way you did before. I cannot expect that to be so, as feelings are fragile and too often, volatile. But I will... you are the most worthy person that has crossed my path... beside my genesire. I have been thinking about placing Aaron in auxiliary chaplaincy. He should spearhead the new future of all baselines competent enough. You should be proud of what our son has accomplished. I certainly am."
The audio did run for another three hours filled with slightly bitter, but still sweet words, promises of a better future and how seinmosian society may be transformed into less intrigue and self-sabotage. That it was Amaya who made him believe in fighting for a better future, even one he may live in. With her. He had something to fight for that wasn't bound to his genehanced loyalty or sheer thankfulness of being discovered by the Primarch just before the Emperor of Mankind had come to Olympia.
Tears in her eyes, she held the large stash of towels close to her when she went to bed, never having read the slate.