Giving [40k]

[Feil]

Giving
Feil


“I loved her, I think. I think she loved me.”

“The psyker?”

“Hela, aye.”

“Mm.”

There was a long pause. Glasses clicked on the tabletop. There was a slight sound of creaking stools as the two shifted their weight.

“She wasn't—when I met her, she looked like—like a woman her age ought to, you know? Blind, of course, and head shaven around the implant site. But still pretty enough.”

“They age fast, the Astra Telepathica,” he agreed.

“I thought she was beautiful. Even to the end. Especially in the end.”

“I know.”

“She was still glowing, glowing with the Emperor's light. They say the Inquisition takes them to Terra—Terra itself, and binds their souls to the Emperor.”

“You mean she says.”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “I guess that's what I mean.

“Emperor, it's a sadness. What a life—what a soul she had. What goodness and kindness. She made us all look like sinners when she was around, y'know?”

“Mm.”

“We used to talk all the time. Sometimes I'd guide her by the hand and we would talk—though she knew her way around the ship without any assistance. Talk about everything, you know? Religion sometimes. Those were best, I think. The way she spoke of the Emperor, it—I dunno. It made you feel like He was really there, watching. Like everything would be alright.”

There was a crinkle of fabric. More soft creaking of stools, and the sound of a hand slowly rubbing a tired shoulder. Underneath there was a hint of tears. More clicks of cups on the tabletop.

When she spoke again, there were spent tears in her voice.

“Near the end, she stopped talking. Like she could feel them coming closer. I thought I had done something wrong at first, something to—I don't know. I didn't know it for fear, not until they were already here. She was pouring all her strength into staying sane and doing her job.”

“Mm.”

“God-Emperor, it hurt her so. Every time she sent a message, she stumbled back to her quarters, pale, exhausted, weak, afraid. More than once, she broke down in tears. Whenever I could, I skived off duty to go to her and help her back. Sometimes I'd just sit with her on her cot and hold her for minutes and minutes as she cried, or trembled, or just rocked back and forth, looking out with her blind eyes, far, far, into the distance, with this look on her face, this, this face of...

“They came, of course. Came in their death-black ships, with a psychic scream that all of us felt—all of us, not just the psykers. Half the Astropaths in the system died; most that survived went mad. I don't know how she survived it—the things I felt, dancing on the edge of my mind—and she saw them, heard them, felt them in full.”

Her voice was jumpy now, punctuated by sharp breaths.

He breathed slowly and deliberately, his hand still rubbing, rubbing.

“She was the only one they could find. The only one who had the strength to send the messages through the awful presence of Chaos' evils, out to the ships, the fleet. We made planetfall and they took us to the governor's fortress. They wanted to just take her, but the Captain wouldn't hear it. He was a good man, good enough. Demanding, maybe too much. Emperor knows he drove Hela nearly to madness. But for his crew, he was—he was loyal to us, and to the bonds that held us together. We all went to the fortress with her.

"The fleet's astropathic choir was strong, together—strong enough to hold onto sanity and project the messages from the fleet to the ground. They came slowly at first; so did the replies. Tactical data. Fleet movements. Targeting coordinates. Lend fire support against warships at this point. Need orbital bombardment at these locations. Calls for aid. Numbers. Casualty reports. Faster and faster. Orders and acknowledgments. Commands, instructions, requests, demands. They came too fast, too many.

"Oh, Emperor. Oh, dear God-Emperor. Hela went quiet, and the silence was deafening. Slowly, with one hand, she pushed up the hair from the back of her head, away from where it had regrown; the dim light glinted off the ugly metal of the mind-machine interface implanted at the base of her skull. They looked at her, and though she was blind, she nodded. 'Do it', she said. Her voice was so flat it broke my heart. 'Do it!'

"They brought out the cable, a dark coil like a metal snake. After configuring the tip, they jammed it into the socket at the back of her head. Her face twitched; her fingers groped at the air. I couldn't—I couldn't—I rushed forward, past guards too surprised to stop me, and took her hands between mine. They tightened around my fingers, and she faced me. Looked at me, right in my eyes, right into my soul. A blind woman, blindfolded to cover the deadness of her eyes, but I could feel her gaze upon me. The room was suddenly cold.

"I saw ice frosting on the windows. The room had been hot, stuffy with the many people crammed inside the tactical control centre; now the breath of the generals and technicians and tech-scribes came in white clouds. A feeling like electric shocks tingled in my hands where they held hers.

"The technician threw a switch.

"Her head snapped back. Her mouth opened in a silent scream. She spasmed as if under a high current, her once-beautiful voice reduced to a taut moaning. But the moaning became syllables, became words and numbers and data codes too fast for my mind to comprehend. The scribe-adepts, arrayed in a half-circle of shadow at the far end of the room, began to write, their mechanical stili flying over data-tablets and keyboards. The room snapped into action, each to his console—information flooded through her, in and out, back and forth, between the fleet and ground command. Her voice grew hoarse, became hardly a whisper, but she didn't stop. She wouldn't stop.

"Her skin went pale, became thin and crinkly like that of an old, old woman. The room grew colder and colder, as psy-frost from her efforts coated every surface; she drew energy from the air itself to maintain that tirade of data and text. They brought in heaters and blankets, sprayed antifreeze over the console-screens and window-panes to keep them clear. Above and outside, the battle raged and raged. Raged for hours, hours that turned into days.

"Her lips, once soft, once beautiful in a smile, grew chapped, thin, pale-blue. Her face, already colorless, took on lines and wrinkles, grew sallow and ashen, gaunt and cold. She began to look like someone who has lived too hard for too many years: her breasts sagged and fell; her muscles wasted, her limbs grew gaunt, wasting away before our eyes. I slept, from time to time, and when I would wake, it was as if she had aged a year in my half-hour of unconsciousness.

"On the second day, she looked at me, and squeezed my hands feebly. I knew—I think I knew—perhaps I knew—what she wanted. Freeing one hand, I pushed off the blindfold.

"Her eyes were beautiful. They were luminescent, gleaming, glowing I think, almost—perhaps more than almost. They were grey - but it felt like colors I had never seen were hidden in them, down deep. Aye, she was blind, I have no doubt... her eyes were fixed only in the general direction of my face. But I could feel her gaze. Oh Emperor, I felt it all the same.

After a few minutes, her eyes closed again.

"Still, her lips moved, her rasping whisper carrying information from the fleet as she died a hundred deaths, endured such tortures.... Minute after minute, hour after hour, she faced the horrors of Chaos, alone.

"The battle ended after a week. Her lips continued to move for a minute, though no voice passed through them, and the words they formed were no messages of man.

"They deactivated the mind-machine interface, detached the cable gently. Clumps of her hair fell away with it.

"At once, the medics leaned over her, injecting her with cocktails of psy-restorative drugs, checking her pulse and her breathing, muttering prayers and litanies of healing.

"Then her eyes opened again, and I felt her looking at me with all the inconceivable power of her spirit, looking through me, looking at my very soul. A smile flickered on her mouth, the mouth that had once been pretty, and was still beautiful, though only because of the soul that wore it.

"Her smile widened weakly, and the room was suddenly warmer.

"She squeezed my hands. And then she died.”

A careful listener might have heard the sound of a stool snicking back, of a man enfolding a woman in his arms.

“Mmmmmmmm,” he said, cradling her still-sitting form, still-shaking form, still-sobbing form. “Mmmmmm.”

[Shroom Man 777]

Wow, man. A very rare piece of work for the 40kverse.

[LadyTevar]

Not all heros wear armor or bear weapons........

[Feil]

As a great man once said,

"Great warrior, hmm? War does not make one great."

Glad you enjoyed.

[Kuja]

Fucking A.

[The Grim Squeaker]

Very nice story, well crafted with a strong emotional tale.
It could have used a little more meat, but works fine as a super short, or archetype.