Editing Bound Fate (Warhammer High) (section)

===Dubhannan - Februarius===
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The black shuttle sat ominously outside the small town, dominating the view for nearly the length of main street. Wind rustled through trees and the sun shone brightly in the sky, as if glad to have returned, however briefly, during the short, harsh Bolanion winter. To the east rose a hill, covered with colorful native wildflowers, themselves concentrated more in the rolling meadow to its south. Everything was wet, just drying from the previous night's heavy rain. Despite the fair weather, lush greenery and tasteful houses, all eyes fell on the ship.

There were two guards, both of them wearing heavy black carapace armor, both with sizable backpack generators tied into the hellguns they bore. Both men, standing on either side of the unfolded entry ramp, wore riot masks as well, ready to filter gas and dim any kind of visual flare instantly. Despite their calm demeanor the storm troopers knew they possessed enough firepower between them to kill everyone in the small rural town, enough even to demolish most of its buildings with time.

Their lord and master appeared then, a few dozen meters away. He strode from a low, stone building, the only truly defensible structure in the village: the jail. The townspeople regarded him warily, but not fearfully. They cared more about the dendrite collar and the Burning Aquila-topped staff than the man who bore them. He was average, unremarkable save for the unimpressive robe he wore, the pale brown garb of an Administratum functionary, one among untold billions in the galaxy.

And yet this unassuming guise only cemented the depths of Malcador's power. Few among the townsfolk even guessed that he may be a psyker, yet his mind was among the most powerful in the galaxy; among Mankind he was second only to the Emperor himself. So it was that the townsfolk paid him no heed, as he intended. Instead their gazes, fearful, angry and doubtful, were set upon the boy who followed him. He was a shell, a pale  reflection of the townsfolk; of his own parents, standing deep within the crowd; of his twin brother, standing farther away still. Separate from the crowd stood a small group of monks in black robes, detailed thinly with gold.

He walked slowly, shuffling, his shoulders sloped with defeat. His eyes were haunted, fraught with loss, confusion and sadness. As if feeling their gaze he stopped and let his eyes travel upwards; when he saw the townsfolk, his eyes changed. Now they shone with hate and anger. The townsfolk bristled at this, seeming to recede before his gaze without moving. But they murmured and muttered. Fear and doubt began to be supplanted by anger once more, as it had earlier that day, and the day before. The monks remained impassive.

“Dubhannan.” Malcador's voice was as unassuming and unexceptional as his dress and bearing, but it somehow demanded obeisance.

Still, Dubhannan did not move; instead, his eyes mirrored the growing anger in the crowd. The emotion seemed to catch and reflect between the two groups, the dozens of townspeople and the boy, intensifying with each invisible pass. The villagers began to rally, to draw courage from numbers and adrenaline, and this only served to infuriate the boy more. He drew himself up to his full height, leather jacket rustling, and his breathing escalated. His hands, dirtied by long hours of recent work in the earth and still chained together at the wrist, suddenly began to chafe at the iron. The two troopers began to bristle now, gently flicking their hellguns to a lower setting. They wouldn't need full power to put down the villagers. Malcador sighed, signaling only the very least relaxation. The change was immediate.

The seething anger–thick between the crowd and the boy–vanished as if it had never been, and was replaced by fear. The villagers fell back and stooped. A few fainted or simply collapsed as the physical weight of mental power, of ages-heavy psychic might, pressed down on them. The boy sagged as well. His shoulders sloped again, his hands drooped and slackened once more. His eyes returned to the ground. Still, Malcador could not help but feel pleased that the boy had remained standing.

''He has potential.'' The pair began to move again, now both occupying the horrified stares of the people, and ascended the ramp into the shuttle. The storm troopers followed the boy up and the entry ramp finally closed. With a low whine the Arvus Lighter's twin rockets fired up. The whine increased to a roar as its stout wings actuated, and the blunt, boxy transport reluctantly lifted off. It hopped, suddenly bursting upwards, then settled into a slower but steadier acceleration, now unstoppable until it reached its destination.

The townspeople watched for a time, until long after the black shuttle was out of sight. Only then did they begin to move, singly at first, then in progressively larger groups until a scarred few remained. These were the angriest among them and they departed as well, not for home, but for the distant rise to the east.

They had to bury their dead.





Dubhannan awoke in a cold sweat, as he had been doing for days, since the night before he left Bolanion. The nightmare seemed to cling to his mind, keeping the memories as fresh as the day they happened. He looked down at his hands, still stained with earth from the digging, and began to brush and swipe at them. Somehow the sweat hadn't turned the dirt to mud, instead his hands just slipped over each other, the sweat making his slack, shaking grip even weaker. He sat up, feet on the cold floor, and continued to rub and and pull feverishly, putting his nails into it, desperate to get the dark, stinking earth off of his hands. Blood started to well up, his short nails passing straight through the dirt and cutting into his skin. It too refused to discolor the mud, simply slipping over and down his hands, onto the cold metal floor. The sight of pooling blood finally threw Dubhannan out of his daydream, and he snapped back to the present. His hands were scraped and cut, rubbed raw in some places. Warm blood mingled with cold sweat, running far too easily down his hands and onto the floor, where the almost inaudible thrum of the engines caused it to quiver gently. He'd changed his sleep patterns, but nothing worked; even sleeping the bare minimum–two hours at a time every four hours–the nightmares came without fail.

Dubhannan watch it fall for a long time, the measured cadence of thick red joined by something clear and thinner, a little faster and more insistent. After a time he inhaled heavily and began to ignore the small puddle at his feet, the Black Ship's vibrations sending red swirling throughout the mostly clear mass. A slow, drawn out exhalation followed, and warmth began to creep into the room from atop the small bed. He continued the slow cycle of inhale/exhale, seeming to prolong each breath for all its worth, and then a little more beyond. His body temperature continued to elevate, and the cold sweat began to do its job, evaporating, each bead taking a small portion of that heat with it. After a half hour he was relaxed enough to enter the second phase of his meditation. A part of his mind flickered briefly back to a time before, when he didn't need to fall back on the basic methods just to get started. Despite the warmth rolling off of him, Dubhannan shivered.

The black came first, far too easily, and the white took its time, ever the opposite. Just last week this process had taken only seconds from start to finish: the mental conjuration of opposition, his mind sealing itself off, protecting him during his daily routine, washing away fear and doubt to allow his world to be seen as it truly was. The image in his mind quivered, and it took Dubhannan some time to recover, to see the two colors in equal measure once more. Slowly, too slowly, they began to merge and interweave, not the square and perfect checkerboard of days past, but a confused, swirling riot mirrored in the mixture of blood, sweat and tears at his feet. After a time they finally began to expand, each swelling to envelope his mind completely, comfortably. The house began to resolve around him, as if his eyes were opening from a long, deep sleep. He saw the fireplace, barely crackling, saw the trees outside, a lush green swaying gently in the heavy early spring breeze.

The last of Bolanion's bleak, sporadic winter had died down, and though he was now far from his physical home, a lifetime of living there, of looking out the windows of the house that became his home, had ingrained the patterns into his mind. The fireplace was old and dirty, but some spots were clean. One in particular, the high corner, and it didn't take Dubhannan much time to cover this up. A finely wrought needlepoint tapestry, depicting a field of wildflowers was pulled off a shelf. As he touched it a happy memory came to mind, of a day long ago on that field, one he knew lay just on the other side of a hill seen through the window. The drapery was dusted off, bringing a small chuckle to Dubhannan. How does a memory collect dust? He savored the recollection a moment longer, the mixture of fear, curiosity and hope as confusing now as it had been that day.

The embroidery was folded gently under one arm, and he took the time to slowly dust off the fireplace once more, going over the too-clean corner quickly. The tapestry was pulled, stretched as only a memory could be, malleable and yielding, until it formed a perfect covering for the stone fireplace mantel. Other objects were collected from the shelves, a bracing picture of a dark-skinned man in black and gold clothing; an impossibly worn and old, but happy family photograph, depicting a pair of smiling children, not five years of age, and two loving parents; a proud old daybook, unbelievably full of notes and schoolwork of all kinds, all well-regarded and commended. These and more settled onto the embroidery, happiness piled upon happiness until the mantelpiece was covered up, almost completely forgotten. Almost.

Outside the confines of his mind, Dubhannan's eye opened and checked the chrono on the far wall. Despite how long the preparations had taken in his mind, only a few minutes had passed in the waking world, and he smiled gently. He had another seven minutes before his benefactor showed up, before the Appraisal started. Dubhannan had no idea what that was, but the way Malcador said the word somehow chilled him to the bone. Regardless, he settled easily back into the house, into a comfortable seat. The fireplace was warmer now, higher without the fear and desperation of the open mantelpiece holding it down. He looked at the door to the library, and felt an odd mixture of pride, apprehension and anticipation. His first task was to banish that from his mind, and he had only succeeded partially, had only portioned it off. But he knew this was all he could do, it was something he would never give up. Dubhannan stood and the door to the library cracked, as if expecting him. That peculiar mix of happiness and pining, of nostalgia, nearly overwhelmed him, but he slid the the door open just enough to slip through, before closing it gently behind him.

The boy opened his eyes seven minutes later, seven minutes that had been just over an hour in his mind, his mnemonic home. The puddle had grown as well, the red now far out-measured by the clear. He slowly became aware of a presence in the room, a dark-robed figure, the burning aquila atop his otherwise unadorned staff casting a flickering light about the room.

“You are prepared, Dubhannan.” Malcador spoke, his voice unassuming yet somehow commanding. The question was phrased so, but the way he said it told the boy it was neither question nor command, a simple statement of knowledge.

“Yes, my lord. The fireplace has been covered, the shelves cleared of the unnecessary and... other things. Most of it has been moved to the library or cellar.”

Malcador looked at him for a long moment, and Dubhannan sighed.

“I have done all I can, the library is closed and locked for now, and it weighs on my my mind no more.”

He regarded the boy for a time, then finally nodded. “Then we begin.”





The process seemed to take hours but the boy knew that only minutes had passed. He sat in the comfortable chair, the fire now crackling along dimly. Malcador produced yet another book and faced the shelves.

“What do you know of science, Dubhannan?”

He grimaced and sweated in the chair. “Not much, we don't learn any more than we need to for-” The book touched the shelf, and the house shuddered as if besieged by a whirlwind. Long groaning creaks ran through the walls, and the bookcase itself shook as the volume settled into place. It seemed to resist somehow, the shelves and framing flexing away from the book as Malcador pushed it with greater and greater force into place. Dubhannan let out a small cry as the fire dimmed, his eyes bulging with unseen effort. His face began to turn red, veins standing out; he started to sweat and quiver. The book finally slid neatly into place and, ever so slowly, the house relaxed. The groaning died down and ceased, the bookshelves became square and straight once more; the fire began to brighten, burning purposefully. Dubhannan calmed last of all, his face changing to its normal color, his veins receding, his eyes lidding with fatigue. The Sigilite smiled and an unmistakable feeling of pride crept into the room. It felt comforting, and bolstered the boy's waning resolve.

“You are becoming more resilient with each book, Dubhannan. But... perhaps twelve is too many for one day.” He looked at the figure in the chair, his simple clothes soaked through with sweat. A leather jacket hung in the corner, a coat rack that hadn't been there when they started. He thought for a moment to take it up, to find comfort in it. He yearned for it, but fought the urge down. He had to do this himself, under his own power. The feeling of pride became stronger, then swelled again as he spoke.

“No, I can handle more.”

“Are you sure?” Malcador gestured at the empty bookcases lining the walls, at the twelve books already in place, sitting in a neat row, so few compared to the hundreds of empty spaces. “If you need an interruption...”

“No.” Dubhannan eyed the door to the library again, and the fire to his side roared to life once more, redolent with determination. “We only have months, and if what you've told me is true, I have much farther to go.” 

Another book appeared in his hands, seeming to emerge from within the brown robe, and Malcador smiled as he pushed it into place. “It is true, they are all very capable. You have much to learn in the sciences, arts and ways of war if you are to match them.”

“And the boy, he's a... psyker, like you?” Dubhannan rolled the word about his mouth, it was new to his vocabulary. He'd heard it before, but only minutes ago had the full knowledge of what being a psyker entailed been forced into his mind.  He glanced at the book, the third one his lord had shelved, and shuddered at the hours it seemed had passed.

“He is not my equal, not yet. Should you succeed in teaching him this,” Malcador gestured at the house, then more specifically at the bookshelves, “he will come to be so. Greater, perhaps.” The book slid into place, and Dubhannan found something trickling through his mind, foreign words that were somehow familiar. Harsh and guttural, associated with a long history of cold living, survival and brutal war.

“What is this?”

“The language is known as Juvjk, the world as Fenris. Your name will not do, Dubhannan. You must blend in. Have you thought on one to take, on your new name?”

Dubhannan shook his head, bracing himself for the next book, the next swath of knowledge to be forced inside his psyche. A tear ran from his eye, a simple reaction to pain. It was not a memory-construct as so many things in the room, but a reflection of the real world. He could barely feel the wooden spar he knew was clenched between his real teeth, sinking deep into it with stress and strain.

“Then we will take the simplest route, Dubhannan. From now on your name is Douglas Hanlon, and to others that is how you will be known.”