I Blame You, Too

by Whitestrake


To sleep, perchance to dream! - Battlecry of the Sleepless

-Amos’s POV-

I fumbled with my rosette as I waited in the conclave’s medicae; most of us had minor injuries, and even the worst needed only a few bones reset. Most of the kill team sat on the opposite end of the corridor, bandaged and bruised, but each of them was still alive. Captain Harkness of the Deathwatch had turned up at some point, and stood vigil next to me; like the others, even if he would not speak of it, he was there to see the Burned Man. It was strange to see a Space Marine outside his armor, but he seemed nearly approachable, were it not for his augmetic arm; he was devoid of visible weaponry, but Emperor knew what he concealed beneath his robes.

“Patient stabilized,” the vox unit above the door chimed as a handful of medics and their specialized servitors trudged from within. Most of the adepts wore masks or had been augmented in such a way that rendered them entirely anonymous, but I could see that, for whatever reason, the chief medicae in charge of this ward was still inside Taylor’s room. THe doors at the end of the hall swung open as Inquisitor Vail and Commissar Cain scurried in, followed as always by their oddly disgusting guardsman.

“I hope I’m not too early to see the big hero,” Vail said cheerily, lifting a package she carried in one hand; Crius had odd traditions, especially regarding the injured or ill. Gifts such as that were expected, something small and heartfelt to convey good feelings to help healing. “The Lord Inquisitor sends her regards.”

_-_-_-_-_

-Taylor’s POV-

I stared down the way at the angel, a towering giant of a man who hefted a sword the likes of which I had never seen in all my life; every rippling muscle that was visible to me, combined with the wings on his back, told me violence would likely not end well for me. Still, if this was the Eternity Gate, and the Emperor lay just behind the angel, then I had to try my best; perhaps, in the best of all possible worlds, I could do some good, something lasting. I looked to myself, and saw that I was unarmed, completely lacking a weapon or anything I could use as one, save perhaps chucking my shoe and hoping for the best. I had no weapons, no powers, no armor, and no backup; if I had to force my way past this angel, then I needed to be resourceful, careful.

I took a single step forward, and faster than I could blink, I had the razor-edge of the angel’s sword millimeters from my nose; I immediately stumbled back, and landed on my ass. I had to think of some way to avoid him; Sanguinius fought for days to hold off the Sons of Horus singlehandedly, so what might this angel be capable of? I looked up to study the giant’s features, though they were hidden behind a beautifully-shaped mask of gold, keeping even his eyes form my sight; the angel’s hair, like spun sunlight, had precious gems and diamond chains threaded through it. I had a lightbulb moment as I realized that he was blind, as the mask had no slits for the eyes, and if he had decorations in his hair, then I could hear him coming and hide so long as I used his blindness to my advantage.

I slipped my shoes off, hoping socked feet on stone would be quiet enough for my distraction to work. I tossed a shoe to the side, over the invisible line that the angel refused to let me cross, but only barely, as I hoped he would confuse it for a step. I darted past him as he seemingly teleported to where the shoe landed swinging his golden sword around as though attacking the wind. If this was truly a dream, then I would be entirely fine. Such thoughts of victory were silenced as a hammer the size of my torso slammed into my center of mass, sending me flying back across the border and into the area I was rapidly assuming had been designated my safe zone in some twisted game.

As I rolled onto my stomach and corrected my vision, I was made aware of two things. For one, that fucking hurt! If that injury hurt, then this was no dream or vision; I was truly within the warp, and this body was how I saw myself, or how the warp wished me to see myself. The second thing I realised was that now a golden knight had jointed the angel. I pulled the front of my shirt out, and that somehow fixed everything that hammer had fucked up; that blow could have - should have - killed me, shattered my soul, but it had not. They toyed with me, as I assumed they would, and that would prove to be their downfall.

I closed my eyes and breathed deep, thinking of myself as I knew I was; I was the Burned Man, warrior and peacemaker, creator and destroyer, weapon and wielder. I opened my eyes, and found myself unchanged, unable to see myself, or recreate myself, in my image.

I was trapped in the warp, and unable to see a way out.

-_-_-_-_-_

-Cain’s POV-

It was rather odd, seeing the mess of bandages and sutures that I had once thought of as a rogue psyker; the Burned Man, closer to a boy in my eyes as he looked surprisingly young for one who commanded the powers he did, was severely wounded, as the report Vail handed to me minutes before entering the medicae had said. A number of broken bones, coupled with crippling organ damage and a few genetic abnormalities that prevented any of the ready-made replacements from being transplanted in, had left the good doctors to use antiquated techniques to save his life.

“He looks like shit,” Lyra said to me, smiling like guardsman facing a firing squad. She was worried, mourning her commander; I had seen as much during my time with the Valhallans, especially when it came to my frequent brushes with death. As if in reply, the Burned Man coughed as machines that did Emperor-knows-what beeped and hissed; he started convulsing and swinging his limbs about like a man possessed. It took only a moment for me to remember that he was a psyker who only recently fought the Great Enemy, and was alone for much of that time.

A metal hand kept me from drawing my laspistol, and I looked to see Captain Harkness was its owner. “Dreams do not warrant execution, commissar. My Chapter’s Librarians teach as much when they accept knew neophytes into the librarium.” He jerked his head towards the seizing man. “Psykers dream; get used to it.”

“This is no dream,” Gilded Unity whispered as the machines calmed and the Burned Man’s limbs were restrained. She looked worried, herself only partially recovered from the shock of receiving so much psychic feedback before her master fell off the radar. “He’s… stuck, like he needs something that he can’t find. He will not wake without it.”

“Has he lost anything important lately?” Amos asked, looking to me as though I knew more than he did about his minion’s personal effects.

“Sergeant Cyrus recovered his sabre and took it to be reforged,” the Marine replied, letting go of my hand and he spoke. “It was meant to be a token of gratitude, taking an item off his list after he wakes.” He looked at the odd expressions painted our faces, and scowled a bit. “Even Deathwatch Marines need something to do after the fighting is done and we haven’t the time to train.”

_-_-_-_-_-_

Gilded Unity felt alien in her skin, as her pony nature threatened to break free. She silently cursed and willed her current form to remain, as she sat down in one of the visitor chairs; she left Dirge and the others to look after their leader as she caught her breath. She blinked back tears as her headache flared back to life. Her head swam, filling with fleeting images of herself wreathed in azure flames as she rained death upon orks, the same orks who put Taylor in such a state; the greenskins made acceptable targets, as Chaos had been defeated, pushed back into the world beyond.

She wanted to make them pay, to purge every spore their warband had seeded, to cleanse the system of their taint. She wanted the power to do so, she needed that power. She only wondered how she might go about getting it.