Améline hangs in the dark, alone save the for the ringing of hammers on an anvil, and pain. But these had been her constant companions. She could no more be frightened of them as she could be frightened of the ache of walking.
She wonders if the Anvil of Apotheosis will take another part of her this time.
The darkness stretches on; she knows that time here is an illusion, but this time she feels expectancy in the wait. Something was going to punctuate the rote of Reforging, she just wasn’t sure what.
Then, stars begin to pierce the void.
Améline watches them shine, each little pip of light tugging at her attention. As she manages to fix her eyes on one particularly…
St. Zigbin lifts up his blazing sword, calling his devotion up to the Good Moon as a huge, winged daemon falls upon him…
Améline pulls back abruptly, and the vision is severed.
Visions…
Before she can pursue that line of thought, she feels a presence behind her.
First stars and visions, now an intruder. Already this Reforging has deviated wildly from her previous experiences. She turns around, wondering what would bring about such a change.
Her breath catches in her throat when she sees the sigil of the Blackhammers on the Lord-Relictor before her.
“Herakes…?”
“Aye, Malliana.”
His voice cuts through her memories. Hearing the strength and wisdom in it, the boisterousness and conviction that had carried the old man into legend in the early days of the Age of Myth has an indescribable effect on Améline, but she feels her eyes threaten to tear up.
The Lord-Relictor reaches up and takes off his helmet, and beneath the stern skull faceplate is a smile splitting dark wrinkled skin and framed with well-groomed silver hair, tugging up at one end to give the Stormcast an edge of roguishness to him. His fiery bronze eyes shine even more brightly than she remembers. Améline wonders if he might be crying too.
“’Tis I.”
There’s only a second of shocked silence, before Améline laughs aloud and rushes to embrace her shorter brother. He laughs with her as he wraps his arms around her back.
They embrace for a moment, before parting. Améline keeps her hands on Herakes’ shoulders as she smiles down at him.
“What are you doing here, like this?”
She raps her knuckles against his armoured chest.
“I haven’t seen you in the flesh since…”
“Not quite in the flesh.” he corrects her.
“You’re still in the soul-trap gem, aren’t you?” Améline wearily sighs.
He nods up to her, and as he does so his head changes. For a brief moment a Morghast’s skull peers up at her, then a blinding light eclipses his head. In it Améline thinks that she can see animal features, before the light disappears and the first head returns, bearing a brave smile.
“I never left.”
Améline’s hands fall to her side, despondency smothering what joy she had felt. For a moment, she had hoped…
“I’m not here for that reason.”
Herakes steps away from her, and his good-humoured expression disappears.
“I’m here to give you guidance on your choice.”
“My choice?”
Herakes nods again.
“You have an unfinished war to fight in the Bleeding Wilds. You can choose to be Reforged at a normal pace and linger in Azyr. You’ve already done so much. No one, least of all your allies, would begrudge you for it.”
“Or?”
A smile flickers on Herakes’ face as he recognises the obstinacy in Améline’s voice.
“Look up at the stars. What do you see?”
Améline does so. One catches her attention, and a few moments pass as she receives its vision.
“I see Marius with his wings torn…”
“Not one star, the stars.”
She forces herself to readjust her perspective. Then her eyes widen when she sees the threads of lightning connecting them. The threads draw her eyes downwards, where they reach down into a shrouded land forming below her. She could almost pick out the landmarks of the Bleeding Wilds.
She hears Herakes step up beside her.
“I remember when you were still a squire in a Stormcast’s body.” he murmurs wistfully. “You had no aptitude for magic, and your talents lay beyond the priesthood. But there was something that made me hesitate before recommending you to Ehani. It was only a little mote, but…”
She looks down at him, and is met with a melancholic smile.
“I think that’s why you flourished as an Errant-Questor. You always could see the potential in others.”
Améline stares down at Herakes, then looks back up at the stars and threads.
“But so many of their futures end in death.”
“They could end in death.”
Herakes’ voice becomes pained.
“If you don’t return to the Bleeding Wilds and do your utmost to save those lives. Every time you die you’ll be Reforged and sent back into the fight within minutes, until you wish to stop. It could irreparably damage your soul.”
“You sound like you’re already grieving.”
“I know you too well.”
Her mind had already been made when she knew that lives depended on her. But there was still someone she needed to consult. The dearest person to her heart.
She sends her question into the tugging on her soul, and receives an answer that same way.
“Aengellania has given me her blessing.” She breathes, blinking away tears.
Herakes nods mournfully and holds out his arm. In it he bears her rune-etched blade. Her old friend from her days as an Errant-Questor.
“Take it, then.”
She doesn’t hesitate. As her fingers close on the grip, her vision explodes into celestial light…
She’s back in the Bleeding Wilds. As she looks around she sees the potential futures spread around her. Somehow, alone, she needs to make sure they were guided to the right endings.
Not alone, Herakes whispers in the back of her mind, and she smiles.
I’ll be damned before I leave you to fend for yourself again.
