For all the solemnity the xenos conduct themselves with, the eerie sight of the masked Farseers preparing themselves for their strange ritual, there’s an element of farce to the whole situation. After long weeks of pursuit through the jungle, little of that so-called Aeldari grace remains to be found in the exhausted, mud-stained specimens Solomorne warily surveys now. The masked bastard that only speaks in riddles hanging around in his garish uniform certainly doesn’t make the rest look any more respectable.
Not ten meters away, Calligos Winterscale lies lifeless on the ground. Without his ostentatious coat or the ferocity that animated him, he makes for a surprisingly plain corpse. Unseeing eyes stare at the xenos as they trample over grass stained with his blood, the rictus grin frozen on his face still mocking them in death.
It’s easy now to decry him as a heretic, spit on his name and be done with it, but… well. Solomorne can’t say it was the wrong choice to kill Winterscale. He just doesn’t know if they’re any better off for siding with the xenos.
The Rogue Trader watches events unfold with crossed arms and tense shoulders, anxious energy heightened by the combat stimms his system hasn’t had the time to clear. Remoboth’s eyes dart from side to side, tracking every footstep, every gesture, every flash of red hair. The xenos meets his gaze as her kin settle in place and offers him a small, determined nod. Remoboth clenches his jaw and digs his fingers into the sleeves of his newly acquired coat.
There’s no warning before the ritual commences. Glaito’s ears prick up, a low growl rumbling in his throat. Something shifts in the air. Before Solomorne can identify what, the clearing explodes in otherworldly color.
When his vision clears, the xenos is on her knees, eyes wide and unfocused, reaching for the stone at the center of her breastplate with a shaking hand. She calls Remoboth by name. Solomorne’s first thought, petty and not entirely rational, is that she knows it after all.
Then he sees Remoboth flinch, a violent, full-body jerk as the color drains from his face. For a moment it’s impossible to tell if he’s about to fall, or dash toward her, or reach for his gun. He rounds on the nearest Farseer so sharply Solomorne’s surprised he doesn’t lunge straight for the xenos’ neck.
“Stop the rite, now! If you’ve hurt Yrliet with your sorcery, xenos, you’re going to wish I let Calligos—”
The xenos barely even turns its head to acknowledge him. “The Rite of Bonding is dangerous, and the Outcast knew the price. I do not know what she sees, hears, and feels. But there is one truth—the Outcast’s soul is impure and the Alaitoc ancestors have noticed this.” Somehow, the smooth surface of its helm manages to express pointed disdain. “Most likely, the Outcast will go through the Rite of Rebirth… or perish.”
Remoboth’s hands curl into fists at his sides, anger tensing every muscle in his body so tightly he can barely speak. “And you won’t do anything to help her.”
There’s no question this time. Remoboth shifts his weight, turns away from the Farseer, and Solomorne can envision his trajectory as clearly as the glowing trail of a flare. He’ll run straight for the xenos, directly into the middle of the rite he’s just been told could have deadly consequences.
The peddler and the witch won't dare get in his way. The cultist probably has some precept against laying a hand on her Domin, even or especially if it's to stop him from throwing himself headfirst into danger. That leaves Solomorne's hand on Remoboth's arm, holding him back from his own reckless impulses.
Remoboth stumbles against the unexpected resistance, whipping his head around to stare at Solomorne’s hand in blank confusion, like he’s forgotten he can be touched. “What are you doing?”
“I need to get to Yrliet, let go—”
It’s a relief that Remoboth is clearly reluctant to fight him; Solomorne is reasonably certain he’d come out on top, but he’d rather not tackle the Rogue Trader to the ground in front of the xenos. Remoboth freezes when Solomorne tightens his grip and tugs him closer, pure disbelief on his face.
“She knew what she was getting into. Let the xenos handle their own.”
“The fucking xenos don’t care about her, they never have,” Remoboth snarls, as if she’s not one of the fucking xenos. “You don’t. None of you do.” Now accusatory, as if they don’t all have perfectly good reason to want her thrown out of an airlock. “I’m all she has.”
Desperation strains his voice. As if, somehow, the fact that the xenos has alienated herself from everyone else in the Expanse isn’t yet more evidence against her, but entitles her to his willfully blind devotion. Solomorne has resigned himself to being mystified by their relationship, but he can’t help but wonder, as disturbing as the line of inquiry is. No one would go this far out of pity alone.
“After what she put you through, put all of us through, you’d still put yourself in danger for her sake?”
“She’d do the same for me,” Remoboth replies without hesitation. “That’s what she’s doing right now.”
Solomorne scoffs. “She owes you at least that much. You don’t owe her anything.”
Remoboth narrows his eyes. “You don’t get to decide that.”
If he wanted, he could pull himself free. It would only escalate into a fight neither of them wants, but even then, for all Solomorne’s reasonably certain he could restrain Remoboth until the xenos finish their rite, stimms and sheer determination might just give him the edge. So why doesn’t he try?
There has to be a limit. He has to believe there’s a point Remoboth won’t go past, some small part of himself he’ll protect above all else. Because if there isn’t—if the reason he’s staying put isn’t because there’s one shred of rationality buried deep inside that knows he needs to give up on the damned xenos for his own good—
A cry resounds through the clearing, as unnervingly alien as it is unmistakably anguished. Remoboth winces like he can feel her pain himself, then turns that wounded look to Solomorne.
Trying and failing not to sound helpless, Solomorne says, “She’s going to get you hurt again.”
Remoboth’s eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown from whatever chemical cocktail the death cultist or the Drukhari has provided him with. When he speaks, his voice is cold. “Let go of me. That’s an order, Solomorne, don’t make me repeat it.”
Five seconds pass. Ten. Remoboth’s hurt expression hardens into resentment. Betrayal.
Solomorne’s fingers close around nothing. Winterscale’s coat flutters behind Remoboth like a victory banner. Even if he wanted to, Solomorne wouldn’t be able to see the look on his face.
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