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Prelude:
Every child of the Elder Gods walks a path through their days. Some will become warriors, an embodiment of the art of war, an aspect of destruction made manifest. Some will become great poets or artists, taking centuries to hone their craft to true perfection. Some walk the road of the Ones Who See, and cast their minds far afield for knowledges and power in defence of their homes. Others still hide within the walls of a Dark City, living out their lives away from the light; they are forced by fear, they become fear, and thus the ancient cycle goes on.

But the lonliest path of all is that of a Solitaire. The soul of a Solitaire is forfiet at the hour of his death to the bane of his race, She Who Thirsts, and until this moment, he shall walk a single road, a lonely wanderer until the end of his long years, fighting the Great Evil wherever it seeks to gain a foothold. Once his task is done, he shall pass on, and his ultimate fate shall be in the hands of gods, the Laughing and the Thirsting.

What follows is the tale of one such warrior, from the moment of his creation to his final breath. And then beyond...


Act I: A Blade Given, A Soul Taken

"I am as shadows, and I am as light. I am forfiet, yet I am free." Endilion intoned, fighting to keep his tone perfectly level; the slightest tremor in pitch would bring this lengthy rite to an ignonimous end. "I am a warrior, and I shall fight. I am Solitaire."

"And so it shall be." The High Avatar concluded, his words carrying such an air of finality that Endilion had to clutch at his soulstone to reassure himself the Deed was not yet done. As his fingers hit the smooth surface, he allowed himself the briefest of smiles. The High Avatar caught his eye in that way he had become so used to over the decades, and as he so often did, seemed to see through any veil Endilion could project. "Not yet, child. When the time comes, you shall know beyond doubt, and then you shall understand."

"Understand what?"

"Always the questions. You will understand all that has been, and all that shall, and your place in this world and the next. And perhaps, then, you shall stop asking." The High Avatar's narrow lips creased at this, the closest to a smile the ancient warrior-poet could muster. Behind the mask, Endilion knew there were a thousand songs, a thousand dances, and a thousand battles fought in the name of The Laughing God. His own path would be quite different. "Follow."

Endilion obeyed, hastening to pursure the hem of the Avatar's robe as it vanished through the gleaming white door and beyond into the temple. Each step was at once perfect and dreadful, for what was to come next would both destroy what he was, and create what he would be. As he passed through the shimmering white field, the scene he emerged into was just as stark a contrast.

Where all before had been white, and shone with myriad shades in starlight, the view that greeted him through the portal was as black as a starless night, even to eyes honed over lifetimes of the younger races. It took only moments for his vision to adjust, but that was enough for the High Avatar to have assumed his place, at the far end of this dark, incorporeal chamber.

And into the darkness came colours, only ghosts of their former selves. From behind jet pillars stepped the remainder of the Troupe, lining his path across a boulevard of gemstones whose hues it was too dark to determine. Ara'tonen, fated to be one of the Jesters in Death, stood closest as he always had, and as Endilion passed, gave him the slightest of nods, an all-too-brief epitaph to a comradeship that had spanned the long years. Before Endilion could return the gesture, Ara'tonen had vanished, whether behind the pillar or to some other place entirely he could not say. All that was left was a haze of black smoke, which dissipated in moments.

The next three Players he passed were masked, and the face he saw in their visages was all too familliar. The Mask of a Harlequin showed the greatest fear and truest hope of any who beheld, and what Endilion saw was just that. A face that had stared back at him from every mirror, every clear pool, every drop of rain on a Maiden World's soil. He stared at his face and passed, and knew that should he look back he would see only shadows. His companions had departed, and with them, his self.

And then, from the inky blackness, a blaze of light. Five Players, dazzling beyond recognition, crossed the way in front of him, their lithe movements manipulating some inner light, causing it to play across shining surface below him. What had been invisible was now lit from all sides, a path dotted with as many shades and colours as a Player's coat, each stone perfectly smooth, save for a single crack along the centre, too neat to be accident. One by one, the illuminating Players began to laugh, and Endilion realised then what it was he stood on.

The beautiful carpet of jewels was no mosaic art, no maker's work, but a trribute and a reminder, the last memento of all those who had trod this road before. Under his feet, and extending across the width and breath of the path, each soulstone shone with an glow that almost suggested they were alive again, free from the clutches of She Who Thirsts. Every soul in the history of the Eldar who had or would take on this mantle would one day rest here. He, so far from home, would one day rest here.

And then it was over, the lights fading as quickly as they had appeared. Endilion took a step, then another, and with each, the shadows seemed to press in around him, the walls became distant and immense. For the first time, he had an inkling of what he would feel the rest of his days. This sense of utter aloneness, a single point in all of space and time, untouched by any other, was his fate now.

So he walked on, understanding just as the High Avatar had promised. After a moment or an age, he found himself at the foot of the black marble dais, which reflected dim lights that weren't there. Facing him, to his left, was his mentor and master, the High Avatar, and to his right, the Shadowseer, the one who would perform the Deed and shatter everything that he was, make him something new. Unsure, Endilion bowed, and then stepped onto the Dais.

The High Avatar was the first to speak. "You are to become Solitaire, Endilion, first of the sons of An'reliath and Tarnant." Endilion swallowed, but kept his face blank as an unseen masque, showing no sign of weakness.

"I am. I have taken the oath, and I shall see it fulfilled."

"Good. Then join us, our exalted brother, and we shall perform the Deed. Enriyana, if you would follow us?"

"Of course, Lord."

Endilion started. Enriyana. No, it could not be her. It could not be. There were a five Shadowseers with the Masque at this time; why her? Her voice, so famillar and so distant, punched all the air from him, and he felt his blood quicked. Why her? He rose to ask, but the High Avatar and the one who would annihilate him had already passed. Once more, he darted after them, his movements imperceptibly more erratic with each step.

Down the passages, through another great hall and at last into the sacred altar he followed the two figures, but whether by design or accident, they remained just to far away for him to call out. When Endilion came to reach the altar, its visage of the Laughing God seeming to mock him already, it was all but too late. He could only stare in silence as Enriyana drew the long blade that would draw out his soul, her Shadowseer's veil hiding her face as surely as the pitch black of the first hall.

What would he see if he lifted it? Some spark of a truth still there behind emerald eyes? A cold contempt for one too reckless? A blank space, free of anything that might impede her in this task? A reflection of himself, terrified but stoic, knowing that there was no escaping this dying of the light? A moment later, Endilion decided he would rather not know.

"Endilion, your soul stone?" the High Avatar requested, and almost reluctantly, Endilion unclasped the gem, now so small and insignificant. He held it in a closed palm for just a moment longer, before passing it to the robed master. "Excellent. Now, if you would kneel?"

He did so, closing his eyes, and as his knees hit the cold ground, he knew. With no preamble, no intonation, no warning, it has been done. The Deed.

From above, below, all sides, sheer force assailed him, frozen as he was, and there was no resistance. From where or when this power came, he could not say or feel or know, but it was more than just power. Exquisite ecstacy and utmost pain mixed in equal measure until they were one and the same, and the past and present and unknowable future were aflame with it.

Before his closed eyes, he saw stars born and galaxies die. He saw fields awash with blood and the greatest of feasts and merriment. Empires rose and fell, reality was torn and resewn a million times over, and with it came the impossible, becoming corporeal just long enough to cause chaos and despair in all they touched. It was these creatures he knew he must fight, and always would. No longer would he be a piece in this game, no more a pawn, but one free to walk his own path. Free, until the final end. Two faces were the last he saw, one smirking at the great cosmic game, the other revelling in its destrucion.

And then it is over. Blackness, whiteness, and at last vision returns.

He rises to his feet, feeling unsteady but knowing his movements are perfect, those of a flawless dancer in this grand performance. He nods in turn to each of the two figures before him, the robed and the veiled, before going perfectly still, perfectly in balance. He knows his purpose, and knows his path and how it ends. Everything that happens is happenning now.

The taller figure, robed, hands him something, a single cracked gem, and without quite understanding why, he takes it and clasps it tight, before placing it into the clasp he knows it will fit. It has been there before. "My thanks. I take my leave." He turns to go, but halts as a voice comes, as if from far away.

"Endilion!" the veiled one cries, "Endilion, you are still there. Your voice, it is the same. You still live!" Ghostlike, she raises a hand and draws it across a face; he sees it collect moisture, what was once tears that another's eyes have cried.

"Who is Endilion?" he asks, and she recoils.

"You are. Aren't you?" There is a tremble in her voice now, something that was once level is now off kilter and tipping ever further.

"I know no Endilion. I am Solitaire, and so I shall always be."

He turns once more to go, his gaze lingering only long enough to see a single tear fall from beneath the veil.

*** *** ***


Notes:


Hope you enjoyed reading this, Act 2 will be up shortly. Thanks for taking a look, and comments, criticism or questions are more than welcome.

Just a quick pointer- I before E except after C. See "forfiet". First line after Act I

Embodiement- cut the e out after i

Ah, just a typo! Cheers for pointing it out!

Paradgim, can I ask you something?

What happened to your true faith story? I was really enjoying that.

I'm afraid that one's on hold for the moment, a combination of factors just killed the flow of it and so far I haven't been able to get back into it yet. It may well be back, but not for a while. Sorry for the dissapointment, I hope you enjoy this side project in the mean time.

Ok. I understand. Thanks

Act II: The Dance of Death

Fingers trace the lines of his mask, running across the grooves of a frown, across the hollows of eyes, across the unmoving, unfeeling surface of the brow. Unlike the masks of his fellows, this is not a mask to terrify but to conceal. Once they enter battle, this mask will remain impassive while all around it twist and disfigure into the worst horrors their beholders can picture. It will continue to hide the face of its wearer, that none might look upon the Solitaire.

Any that do, Eldar or no, might be driven mad by the sight, a greater horror than any the masks of the Troupe could reflect. For centuries, maybe even millennia, he has walked the starways alone. He has no name now but Solitaire, no companion beyond those who take battle by his side, no home but that which awaits him at the utmost end. Any who look on his face need not fear his blade; the anguish and despair and damnation that are stretched thin across his features are enough to break a heart, rend a soul, shatter a mind.

Footsteps so light none but he could hear approach from behind, so as not to look on him. Without turning, Solitaire can sense the discomfort seeping through newcomer, feel it in his movement and hear it quiver beneath his words. He frowns to match his mask; even those who would claim allegiance with him are numbed by his presence.

"Solitaire, it is time." The newcomer turns on his heels and darts away, back to the distant merriment of his fellows as they prepare for another bout, another act in their Great Dance. Some unfortunate audience is moments away from seeing perfection and death incarnate. And he, Solitaire, shall play his part.

Slowly, he lifts his hood and mask to the light, just enough to remind him of the face that used to be his own, and solemnly lowers it over his tortured features, an age-old scowl is replaced by the tempered anger of the sculpted facade. The horns that jut from its brow are tipped in gold, razor sharp, and in its very substance are wound and bound the runes of protection, powers that have saved him countless times. Solitaire fastens the clasp under his chin just a little too tight, then reaches for his gloves, their diamond-tipped claws still hued a faint red, a reminder of the blood he has spilled.

From somewhere nearby, likely the Troupemaster's own chambers, there is a great commotion, screams of pain and a keening, sorrowful wail. The Master has consulted the Shadowseer for her visions, and she had forseen what Solitaire has been sure of for aeons; the next world he treads upon shall be his last. He clears his mind, blocking out the Seer's lamentations, and focuses once more on his own preparation. He may be fated to die here, but it shall not be ignominious, and he must yet play one more part.

Moments later, Solitaire fastens the straps of his holosuit around him, tightens his flip belt, and reaches for his sword, it's curved blade glinting and shimmering. It too knows what is coming, and will relish the experience. Solitaire casts his mind back over the ages, trying to remember who it was that bestowed upon him the flawless weapon, but he recalls nothing but the foes it has slain. All too often now, memories that were once vivid are blank, and he can see only darkness. Under the mask, he scowls, and notes with some irritation that a tear is forming in the corner of his eye. It has been centuries since he has cried, centuries since he has had reason to.

A clock strikes at its own pace, signifying that the time has indeed come for the Troupe to take the stage. Without a look back, Solitaire strides the passages of the vessel, coming to the Great Hall at the same instant as the chiming stopped. All around the room, members of the Troupe take their places, awaiting the delivery of their Script for this performance. Mimes and Players line the walls, and Death Jesters cling to the shadows, their weapons ready and deadly. As ever, Solitaire stands alone.

With all the usual show, the Troupe Master sweeps into the chamber, and with a wave of his hands, snaps open the Webway Gate, the Curtain. Instantly, a vista forms, an image of blood and fire somewhere far away. Behind him comes the Shadowseer, who, as always, turns ever so slightly towards Solitaire himself, though he can never tell why. There is a sadness in her step deeper than that for the loss of a comrade in arms. He is thankful they are both masked; eyes ask too many questions.

"This," begins the Master, "is to be our Stage. And they are to be our audience" He gestures again, and the view shifts, to where beasts and creatures of the immaterium are tearing through the forces of the Mon-Keigh, whose machines and weapons are all but useless. Great creatures of shining blood charge the lines and break through, and in their wake come the all-too-familliar favoured forms of She Who Thirsts. "Masque, let us give them a show!"

And with that, the Troupe moves in perfect unison, rushing towards the Gate and through it, each knowing they can rely on the next to cover their assault. With leaps and bounds they advance, instantly taking a foothold before splitting off to perform their acts. Shuriken disks fly at impossible speeds, blades and claws and meshes cut through anything in their path, and already, the forces of the Great Enemy are turning to face the new threat. As is customary, Solitaire waits until all have passed before stepping calmly though into the hell.

The first footstep he takes becomes a leap, and he thrust his blade between the eyes of a Demon, watching its form evaporate before firing a fusillade of shots through the vanishing mist, cutting two more of the incorporeal creatures down. Seamlessly, offense becomes evasion, and he darts aside as a blade, clumsy to his eyes, splits the air where he paused just a moment too long. The glowing sword hits the rock, sticks deep, and before its wielder can react, Solitaire has driven his own weapon through its demonic heart. Its foul essence vanishes on the wind of battle, and Solitaire waits for an instant, before throwing himself into the battle in earnest.

He is a whirlwind, all falling before him, the mortal servants of the Enemy fleeing sluggishly before his assault of blades and shots while their incorporeal allies are banished beyond this plane. A thin haze of blood soon follows his blade, spatters his coat and paints his frightful mask, and still he dances on, far now from the Troupe. Wherever Solitaire treads, foes fall and ranks disintegrate, and in his wake comes a resurgence, the Mon-Keigh rallying to the breach in the enemy lines and pushing on.

In this moment, Solitaire allows himself the faintest of smiles. They do not yet fear him, as all who know him do. Though he dances in blood in the half-light of fires, they are inspired. He can hear their whispers; they ask if he is an Angel, a sign from the Corpse God himself. They ask who he is, and where he comes from, and though they know no more of this than he himself, they follow.

And he leads, driving further and further on into the fell ranks. All that he touches with deadly grace turns to ruin, each movement is perfection in this grim art. A dozen demons rally, cry out, charge towards him, and a moment later they are nought but ash. Even the armoured demigods, veterans of a war that has raged eternal, are powerless; Each slice and delicate cut rends armour, tears plate and pierces mutilated flesh. As Solitaire draws close, his white mask now wholly red, his blade and diamond claws a blur, they at last know fear, for just an instant.

As the last of the Traitor Lords falls at his feet, and hordes of the Younger swarm past, Solitaire halts, surveying the battle, looking back across the carnage he has wrought and beyond. To the denizens of the Dark City, this vista would be bliss. Everywhere there is pain, great tangible clouds of pain hanging over half-living forms that were once men. The very air is heavy with the reek of blood and decay, and it rings with the screams of those left behind, the cheers of those that have fought on.

The Troupe is scattered far and wide, each pocket of bright motion bringing death to all before it. Black forms of the Jesters send volley after volley towards the enemy, while the Mimes and Players close in, tearing at all within reach, shredding body and mind. And at the very tip of the blade, the Troupe Master and Shadowseer lead the dance, sending the forces of the Dark reeling with every strike. The tide of battle is turning.

And it turns, in a single moment that eclipses all. There is a sound of nothiness and impossibility spewing forth, and the air boils as a great, burning cold spreads from the darkest of lights. Reality is torn, shattered as a falling mirror, and from the breach come the greatest of all foes. The forces of She Who Thirsts, eyes aflame and torturous forms twisting beyond recognition, pour forth, and at their head, a foul mockery of Eldar grace, huge and sickeningly magnificent.

The creature, realised fully in dread form, moves faster than speed and time itself, and it is done.

The Master’s body, pierced through by a single claw, slumps limply to the ground, and all is silent. All is still. Nothing in this place of all hells is right or pure or sacred.

A single drop of blood falls from the tip of Solitaire’s blade.

It is time.

Act III: Nameless


Now is the time, and the time is now. The moment that has been millennia in the making, every step of the dance bringing it closer, closer. It is here.

All is still, a scene preserved in every detail. The armies of the Mon-Keigh are frozen in mid-cheer, blissfully unaware of the pandemonium erupting behind them. The Demon hordes, pale-fleshed and wreathed in hellish flames, stride with foul purpose from the shining rent in reality’s cloth. Even the Eldar, most gracious of all, are paused to sight, masks no longer shifting, hiding keening cries as one of their own is lost to the beyond. Bullets and bolts and hurled things hang in the air, as if suspended from motionless clouds of smoke.

All is still, but for two figures. One, immense, white and perfectly hideous, flexing its many limbs with predatory intent, twin tongues creeping from its open maw, towards the fallen Eldar. Its eyes, black as a starless void, dart upwards as another form draws close, shrouded and bloody.

In a flash, Solitaire stands alone, over the body of his slain Master, between the motionless Troupe and the great, lithe mass of the demon, a fragment of the Thirsting God. Slowly, leisurely, it turns to him, reaching out with its clawed arm, its touch light, impossibly so for a creature so immense. Solitaire bows his head; what comes next, he has already seen.

This final dance he has rehearsed a thousand times, in silent thoughts and waking dreams, and he is ready. But he shall not die a puppet.

“I am J’kaiul, Lord of the Seventh Kingdom, Mistress of the Thousand Blades. I am fairest and most foul, and I am the Approaching Dark. I am an Echo of the Fall, and I have come to claim what is mine.” The demon’s voice is all around him, a whisper and a roar, an shadow from long ago and something so very, wondrously new. As Solitaire meets its eyes, they shift and warp; every gaze he has ever met stares back at him, and pierces deep.

And then it is within him, his very mind a plaything. Memories long lost are overturned and brought to a surface, more complete than they have ever been. Each one is a new path, one he has walked and forgotten, and all are twisted, corrupted, drained of all joy. Every instant comes at once, an endless and single reverie that remains incomplete, and brings with it new extremes of pain. Faces are there, but names are long gone, and words that were once tender pass beyond a veil. He can see a child, a warrior, everything he was and might have been, but not what he is. Not any more, and not for long long years. The Demon smiles a hideous, beautiful smirk.

“You are… Nothing. No One. Nameless. Worthless.”

And then come new memories, ones he has never lived, never seen before. Through the eyes of untold hundreds he sees himself; an outcast, yes, but a savior to some. A silent protector, aid unlooked for. He sees for the first time the value of all that he has become. A lightest touch on a face, a single tear. He blinks.

“I am Solitaire.” And that is all he needs to know.

Both Eldar and Demon move at once, blurs to any other, their ensuing duel taking place in the midst of a battlefield but so far away. Solitaire leaps aside as three clawed limbs slice the space he has just passed though, and thrusts his sword out, finding purchase no nought but smoke as the demon lord’s form shifts around the shimmering blade. The first step taken, they recoil, stand tall, and the fatal dance begins in earnest.

They are entwined. Sword and claw and dart and blade become shadows passing through lighted air, and with a world standing still around them, demon lord and Eldar warrior are at once separate and joined. Four strikes come at Solitaire, from angles impossible, and each he deflects with deft precision, sending them down into the dirt or skyward, darting in each opening only for the foe to displace itself, reform again from sweet clouds of acrid essence, begin the dance anew.

The demon conjures a whip, flickering with screams, and slashes downwards, cleaving through air, thought and the bones of the dead, but not Solitaire, for he is too swift. His own blade comes up, severs the tendrils and strikes at the hand that wields them, drawing black and burning blood from the oily and smooth flesh. J’kauil reels back, spitting fire, and pulls a blade of damned souls from some other place beyond sight.

“You cannot win, savant of the Laughing One. Your soul is to be mine, my own, nothing more than a bargaining chip in a game you cannot possibly know.” It smiles. “But you have foreseen this. You know, in your blackened heard, how this day must end.”

Solitaire raises his sword, the tip of the blade resting on the demon’s chest. “I have seen, demon, how this day will end. And though it may be my doom, by Cegorach and Asuryan it shall be yours also!” The names invoked seem to spite the demon more than any cut, and once more it hisses flames, flames which wrap around Solitaire and chill him to the bone.

“Very well. We shall fight, then, and you shall do as you must.” It leans closer, horned head pushing through the wisps of fire. “It matters not, he who was Endilion. For at its end, both of us shall return to whence we came, and the mercy of my Thirsting Master.”

The demon’s tongues dart out, razor edges catching Solitaire unaware, and a moment later he can feel blood, stripped of all warmth, run from his throat. Too late, he sees the shrieking sword descend from above, cutting without pain through the arm he raises to parry it aside. “Do you see now, Eldar child, that you can never win? Slaneesh shall have your soul.”

“Slaneesh can take my soul,” he spits, and plunges his blade deep into the dark heart of the demon. Black blood and white fire spew from the wound, and J’kaiur draws itself back, writhing in agony Solitaire knows it must cherish. It is of little consequence; if he must please the creature to send it back to its hellish domain, then so be it.

He sheathes his sword with his one remaining hand, and touches the diamond-tipped claws to his mask. They cut it away in an instant, and it begins its fall in tatters to the ground, hanging almost motionless in the air. J’kaiur’s pale brow furrows, and its many eyes blink as if to hold back tears as the rage and fury of a Solitaire, nameless and without hope, is revealed. For the first time in maybe a century, the face that was once Endilion’s twists into a terrible, bloody smile. It is time for an end.

Solitaire runs, leaping in great bounds of the detritus of battle, and any airborne thing in his path he twists just slightly, towards the cowering mass of the demon. Bullet, blade and flying grenade, all are aligned as he crosses the gap, and slowly, even in this stilled time, a dreadful look of realisation dawns on the ragged face of his foe. Silhouetted against the glow of the portal, Solitaire cannot see what thoughts its visage betrays, but still he knows. This demon, oldest of enemies, is trapped and paralysed by his greatest tool. Fear.

Knees hit the ground, shoulders roll over and forward, and Solitaire comes up laughing. He slows, the last of his great speed spent, and all around, hell resumes.

The armies of the Mon-Keigh are stilled as the horror dawns on them. The demon hordes turn to face their fallen lord, who cowers behind raised limbs with closed eyes. The Eldar’s lament resumes its slow tune, and the descend with the utmost fury on the new enemy. And the bullets, blades and hurled things resume their flight at Solitaire’s whim, all now falling on the demon lord.

In a thousand places its flesh is rent and torn as the fusillade finds its mark, explosions of fire and shrapnel cutting ever deeper. It screams a torturous scream, but it cannot wipe the smirk from Solitaire’s unmasked face as his task is done, his enemy reduced to nought but blood and ash. The time has come, and it has been done.

And with that, the demon legions are sucked back into the closing whirlpool, their connection to this plane severed, and their cries are music to all. Cheers of victory again go up, though the Eldar’s song underpins the elation with grief, and one last time, Solitaire looks back. The Troupe has assembled behind him, a riot of colour unstained by battle, and as one, they bow to him. Each mask shows only the face beneath it, set in remorse and reverence, and in turn, he stares back at each, his own unhidden visage at last free.

The blood that runs from his severed arm and torn throat is at last warm, the pain that wracks his tired form is calmed, and memories that have long been forgotten fall back into place. True to his path, he gives one final, dying laugh, that echoes all around as if the God himself were lending his voice to it.

The last of the demons depart with the faintest gust of wind, and Solitaire turns. Step by step he moves with a will that is not his own, away from the Troupe and towards the portal, to where his final fate must be decided. Leaving the Eldar to their sorrow, and the humans to their victory, he passes the threshold of the great gate, passes from one world to the next, and all at once is shadow.

Great story thanks Really evocative and reminds me pleasently of the orignal Eldar story in that long ago WD

Ooooh... Nice!

Thanks guys, glad you like it!