Fool's Ship

Fool's Ship

What should I say to him if I ever met him again?

Mors had never considered that question, not even once.

Rather than meeting him again, he hoped that absurd hypothesis would never become reality; but if the height of misfortune truly arrived one day...

Then let it arrive.

He naturally turned around within this cold space of pure gold, his left hand clutching the goldstone, bones, hair, and dagger he had brought out of Blissful Heaven.

These objects, not yet restored, reshaped, and twisted during their passage through the veil, proved that he was still within the Warp.

The sound of vast tides and all manner of indescribable dissonance had retreated, leaving behind an eternal, unchanging silence.

He raised his left hand and waved it at the figure opposite him, at ease, even somewhat excessively relaxed and casual.

That quickly made him feel as though he were putting on airs before a beam of artificial sunlight. He lowered his left hand, his smile fading, and simply greeted the dazzling halo opposite him. +How has your Earth been lately?+

+At war,+ the person within the halo replied.

The glittering radiance obscured his expression in its holiest form. Mors could not see his eyes, nor could he discern any emotion that might have existed in his tone.

The man merely stood there, sparing his words, before bringing an unbearably long silence.

The sounds outside grew slightly louder again, invading the space of pure gold. Bursts of low laughter and choking sobs came from hundreds upon thousands of different souls, like waves battering towering ramparts.

It was like a trigger, prompting both of them to move.

The part of the entire space constructed by the other's power became more solid and secure. Likewise, more incantations supported the foundation of the space.

Mors no longer looked at the other man. He sat down and arranged those little trinkets one by one, slowly working them with one hand as he spoke as flatly as possible. +Another war you started?+

+Yes.+

+Did you win?+

+Yes.+

The goldstone was reshaped into an arrowhead, the bone carved into a shaft, and the hair temporarily served as fletching, though its occult significance far outweighed its practical use.

Mors inscribed more symbols onto the little arrow. It would make a useful tool.

Then he began working on the dagger.

Setting aside all irrelevant factors, Slaanesh's aesthetic sense truly stood at the pinnacle among the galaxy's countless living beings. A short blade barely more than a palm in length had already reached the summit of beauty, even surpassing the limits of what mortals could imagine as beautiful.

It was not merely the complete perfection of structure and proportion, whole and detail alike. The aura of the Chaos sea had also bestowed upon it an extension of Slaanesh's own authority.

Mors did not damage that precious quality. He merely carved a few appropriate incantations into the side of the dagger, strengthening his temporary control over it.

This silent, busy work seemed to construct a tangible system amid the quiet golden light, softening the cruel implications of silence itself and even creating a false harmony.

For an instant, Mors felt that this moment might last forever, and he despised himself for such wild thoughts.

Not long after, a voice emerged from the golden light. +I heard you call for me.+

+Obviously, you heard me,+ Mors said.

+You need help.+

+The one who needs help isn't me. It's Peturabo—have you met him?+

+Yes.+

+What do you think?+

+...+

Silence.

Half an hour ago, Mors had wondered whether the other man had changed over the years. Now he knew that at least the fellow was as capable as ever of easily driving people into impatient irritation.

He drove the prepared dagger into the ground.

Incantations flowed, conjuring another solid object with a peculiar structure.

+Was that your creation? A super-son bred through genetic engineering? Since when did you want offspring?+

+...No.+

+You can't answer three questions with one answer.+

At last, he heard something other than the simplest affirmation or denial, a sentence that made the other seem slightly less like a stupid machine. +I created him. He is not my son.+

+Then what is he?+ Mors asked dismissively. +Another temporary tool?+

+...No.+

Mors decided to shut up.

His nonexistent heart was about to race with anger from this infuriating, impossible conversation.

After all, he did not want an answer.

A crossbow had appeared in his hand, adorned with a few decorative touches to complement the arrow's artistic symbolism.

Mors set the arrow into the empty groove and pressed it tight. If he had two hands, he would have preferred drawing a bow and firing an arrow; but a crossbow bolt would do just as well.

The man shrouded in golden light approached him and stood beside him without saying anything more.

The runes scattered, and a hole opened in the space of pure gold. Beyond it, deep, variegated colors reappeared.

Mors raised the crossbow and pulled the trigger. The arrow flew out like a streak of light.

Far away, within the soil of a dense and verdant garden, a group of decayed creatures dancing hand in hand in a circle were skewered in a line by the sharp arrow, unable even to let out a weeping wail.

The incantation that sent the arrow into the garden wore away at precisely the right moment during its journey through the abyss. The Lord of Ecstasy's power lost its restraint and automatically spread through the depths of rot in a strange form, purple mist blending into deep green.

Mors withdrew his gaze, both to avoid being noticed and because he did not wish to see more unbearable sights.

+The casualties of war will bring plague,+ he said, pulling the dagger from the ground with one hand and using it to push himself to his feet. +I'm making a few preparations in advance.+

The golden man silently gave him some room.

The power of the incantations was drawn back further and reformed into a long chain with a hooked tip, which plunged into the vast sea.

A moment later, the long chain hooked a heavy object hidden nearby behind the golden light, and Mors's smile gradually grew.

+Give me a hand.+

No further words were needed. Golden brilliance erupted with fiercer light, and fire ignited along the long chain at precisely the right point. A miserable shriek came from its end.

Mors immediately reeled in the chain, violently dragging back a blue bird struggling to escape by its wings. In a flash, the dagger stabbed into its dark blue feathers, tearing apart its ever-shifting flesh.

The next moment, the blue bird's phantom escaped from the hook and spilled a trail of flowing violet-blue liquid. The liquid crawled up the dagger, but before it could touch Mors, he discarded the dagger, no longer needed after use, to drift anywhere in the Warp.

Mors shook his head. Actual harm was not so easily inflicted. He had already reached the limit of his current ability.

In any case, after finally completing a series of counterattacks, he felt considerably better.

He turned sideways and briefly faced the radiant figure.

Mors studied the dazzling silent man for a while, only to find himself unable to speak as well. It was as though a jagged ironstone had lodged in his throat.

He insisted on not looking away. Before long, he also refused to remain silent any longer.

The torment of being continuously watched by golden light gradually outweighed the momentary pain of speaking.

Mors smiled, though he did not think the other could see any expression on his voidlike face.

He did not know whether he should feel sad about that. He did not even have a heart to beat for it.

+Goodbye, Neos,+ he said, while suspecting that he would soon see Neos's true body. That suspicion forcibly stopped him from feeling reluctant to part after this brief meeting.

+Goodbye, Remus.+

He received an answer.

The space formed by incantations gradually detached and separated from the other's power, like a small boat rising out of the Warp.

Passing through layers of spaces of light and shadow, he touched the scent of reality.

He looked around.

Burned-out ash, broken roof beams, dead attendants, the distorted corpses of the tyrant's family.

There were no longer gauze curtains or fragrant ointments. Illusory flowering vines had all returned to dirt and rubble. All twisted darkness had retreated from Olympia, and the abnormal night had yielded its place to bright day.

Sunlight pierced the ruins, illuminating a small sailboat made of gold and silver and inlaid with blood jade.

Mors recognized it as a miniature model of the small boat he had ridden when he had previously sailed toward Slaanesh's Sixth Circle.

This Fool's Ship had carried him, a bloodless, tearless thing of nothingness, through reunion and separation, departure and return.

Mors picked up six broken, filthy crystals and gathered the lingering remnants of aura and twisted souls from the corpses present, placing them all into the small sailboat.

Brilliant golden fire rose. The corrupted odor gathered on the little sailboat was thoroughly purified and burned away, and what burned next was the boat itself.

A remnant soul revealed a gentle phantom. He seemed to want to say something, yet he also seemed only to be shedding tears.

Mors quietly nodded.

The phantom bowed his thanks to him, then vanished forever along with everything in the little boat.

After the purification ended, Mors heard someone shove aside the soldiers trying to stop him, heavily stamping across the ground as he strode this way.

When the warped, melted door was effortlessly snapped and torn open by a pair of enormous hands, Mors realized a serious problem.

He had not yet rebuilt his body.