Fool's Ship

Chapter 50: The Fool's Ship

What should I say to him, should I ever meet him again?

Mors had never once considered the question.

Rather than meeting him again, he hoped this absurd hypothetical would never become reality; but if this unfortunate extreme were truly to descend one day…

Then let it descend.

He naturally turned in the cold, pure gold space, his left hand clutching the stones, bones, hair, and dagger he had brought from the Empyrean.

These objects, not yet returned to their warped and twisted forms during the passage through the veil, confirmed that he was still within the Warp.

The sound of vast tides and indescribable discords had faded, leaving behind an unchanging silence.

He raised his left hand and waved it at his counterpart, leisurely, even excessively relaxed.

This quickly made him feel as though he were posturing before a beam of artificial sunlight, so he lowered his left hand, his smile fading, and simply greeted the brilliant halo opposite him: "How is your Earth these days?"

"At war." the person in the halo replied.

The radiant glow obscured his features in the most sacred manner; Mors could not see his eyes, nor discern any possible emotion in his tone.

The person simply stood there, speaking only when necessary, then bringing a terrifyingly long silence.

The sounds from outside grew a little louder, once again invading the pure gold space, with bursts of low laughter and sobs emanating from hundreds of different souls, like waves crashing against towering ramparts.

This acted as a trigger, prompting movement from both of them.

The part of the space constructed by the other's power became more solid and firm, and equally, more incantations propped up the underlying structure of the space.

Mors no longer looked at his counterpart. He sat down, arranged the trinkets one by one, and slowly trimmed them with one hand, speaking as flatly as possible: "Is it war you started again?"

"Yes."

"Did you win?"

"Yes."

The stones were reshaped into arrowheads, the bones were carved into arrow shafts, and the hair temporarily served as fletching, though its arcane significance far outweighed its practical utility.

Mors began to engrave more symbols onto this small arrow; it would be a useful tool.

Then he began to work on the dagger.

Setting aside extraneous factors, Slaanesh's aesthetic sense was indeed at the pinnacle of the Galaxy's endless life forms. A mere dagger, little more than a span in length, had already reached the zenith of beauty, even surpassing the limits of beauty mortals could imagine.

This was not merely a complete perfection of structure and proportion, of whole and detail; the aura of the Warp ocean also extended Slaanesh's own power onto it.

Mors did not destroy this precious attribute, merely carving a few appropriate incantations into the dagger's side to enhance his temporary control over it.

This silent, busy work in the golden light seemed to construct a tangible system, softening the cold meaning of the silence itself, even bringing a false harmony.

For a moment, Mors felt that this present moment would last forever, and he despised his own wandering thoughts for it.

A short while later, a voice came from the golden light: "I heard you call me."

"Evidently, you did," Mors said.

"You need help."

"It's not I who needs help, it's Peturabo—have you seen him?"

"Yes."

"What are your thoughts?"

"..."

Silence.

Half an hour ago, Mors had wondered if his counterpart had changed over the years; now he knew that at least that fellow could still, as always, easily provoke impatience.

He stabbed the finished dagger into the ground.

The incantations flowed, used to conjure another uniquely structured tangible object.

"Is that your masterpiece? A super-son cultivated through genetic engineering? When did you want offspring?"

"...No."

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

He finally heard a human utterance, beyond the simplest affirmation or negation, that made his counterpart seem less like a foolish machine: "I created him. He is not my son."

"Then what is he?" Mors asked dismissively, "Another temporary tool?"

"...No."

Mors decided to shut his mouth.

His non-existent heart was about to beat furiously due to this infuriating and unmanageable conversation.

After all, he didn't want the answer.

A crossbow had already appeared in his hand, its design adorned with a few aesthetic decorations to complement the artistic symbolism of the arrow itself.

Mors placed the arrow into the empty slot and tightened it. If he had two hands, he would have preferred to draw and shoot the bow; but the crossbow would suffice.

The golden-clad figure approached him, standing by his side without saying much.

The runes dispersed, and a hole appeared in the pure gold space; beyond the hole, the deep, vibrant colors reappeared.

Mors raised his crossbow and pulled the trigger, the bolt shooting out like a stream of light.

Far away, in the soil of a lush, verdant garden, a group of decaying creatures, dancing hand in hand in a circle, were impaled by the sharp bolt, not even having time to let out a whimpering cry.

The incantation that sent the bolt to the garden was perfectly consumed during its journey through the abyss. The power of the Lord of Ecstasy, freed from restraint, spread in a bizarre form within the depths of decay, the purple mist merging into a deep green.

Mors withdrew his gaze, both to avoid detection and to prevent seeing more unbearable sights.

+The casualties of war will bring plague.+ he said, drawing the dagger from the ground with one hand and pushing himself up. +I'm making some small preparations in advance.+

The golden person silently made way for him.

The power of the incantation was further withdrawn and reformed into a long chain with a hooked tip, reaching into the vast sea.

In a moment, the chain hooked onto a heavy object hidden nearby behind the golden light, and Mors's smile deepened.

+Give me a hand.+

Without needing further words, the golden light erupted with even more intense illumination, the chain at the hook catching fire perfectly, and a miserable shriek came from the end of the chain.

Mors immediately retracted the chain, yanking a struggling blue bird by its wings as he pulled it back. In a flash of lightning, the dagger pierced the deep blue wing, tearing through the ever-changing flesh.

The next moment, the blue bird's phantom escaped the hook, scattering a stream of purple-blue liquid; the liquid climbed up the dagger, and before it could touch Mors, the dagger, to be discarded after use, was thrown by him into the arbitrary drift of the subspace.

Mors shook his head; actual damage wasn't so easily inflicted, and he had done all he could within his current abilities.

Regardless, after finally completing a series of counterattacks, he felt much better.

He turned sideways and briefly met the gaze of the radiant person.

Mors observed the dazzling, silent figure for a moment, finding himself unable to speak. His throat felt as if it were blocked by a shard of sharp iron.

He forced himself not to look away, and soon, he also forced himself not to remain silent.

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

Mors smiled, though he didn't believe the other party could see any expression on his void-like face.

He didn't know if he should be sad about it. He didn't even have a heart to beat for it.

+Goodbye, Neos.+ he said, simultaneously doubting that he would see Neos's true form soon, a doubt that forcibly prevented him from feeling any reluctance about this brief encounter.

+Goodbye, Remus.+

He received a reply.

The space constructed by the incantation gradually separated from the other's power, like a small boat surfacing from outside the subspace.

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

He looked around.

Burnt dust, broken beams, dead attendants, the deformed corpses of the tyrant's family.

There were no longer sheer curtains or fragrant oils; the illusory floral vines had all returned to soil and stone. All twisted darkness had receded from Olympia, and the abnormal night had given way to bright daylight.

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

Mors recognized it as a miniature model of the small boat he had taken when he sailed towards Slaanesh's sixth ring.

This Fool's Ship, carrying him, this bloodless, heartless void, had reunited and parted, departed and returned.

Mors picked up six broken, corrupted crystals, collected the residual aura and twisted souls lingering on the corpses present, and placed them all into the small sailboat.

Brilliant golden flames ignited, and the corrupted scent gathered on the small sailboat was thoroughly purified and burned away. Next to be burned was the sailboat itself.

A residual soul manifested a gentle phantom, seeming to want to say something, or perhaps just shedding tears.

Mors nodded quietly.

The phantom bowed its head in thanks, then, along with everything in the sailboat, vanished forever.

After the purification ended, Mors heard someone push aside the dissuading soldiers and stride heavily towards the location.

When the twisted and melted gate was easily pried open and torn apart by a pair of massive hands, Mors realized a serious problem.

He hadn't rebuilt his body yet.