#au: whumper tacitus

[just-horrible-things]

[Warning - eye gore.]

Send a message, the letter reads, in the familiar elegant curls of his mother’s handwriting, to Inquisitor Bright. He has a location – not to find the Inquisitor herself, of course, but somewhere that her agents can be found. Return her acolyte – or what remains of her – with an apology. Remind her that misunderstandings are tragically easy, and that the affairs of Navigators are perilous.

Privately Tacitus thinks that it might be wiser to allow the Inquisitor’s minions their investigations. He has nothing to hide. If Cavarr have sins worthy of the Inquisition’s attention, Tacitus knows nothing of them and therefore cannot betray any secrets. Rebuffing them like this will surely just raise suspicions. Even Navigators aren’t entirely beyond the Inquisition’s reach.

But it isn’t Tacitus’ decision to make. And the House feels that the insult of such blatant snooping should not go unanswered.

“I will take dinner with the prisoner,” he informs his valet as he folds the letter carefully for storage. “See that she’s cleaned up, and find her something to wear, please. There’s no need to humiliate her. If she will wash herself, let her.” “What should she wear?” “Hm, I don’t know. Find her something respectable, would you? Black, I should think, the Inquisition always seem to be in black. I shall be informal.”

“Of course. Leave it to me.” “Thank you.”

They share a smile, then Tacitus turns back to his desk. He should write back to his mother, and while he won’t be able to finish the letter until after he has dealt with the Inquisitorial woman, he has plenty of other topics to cover.

---

The unfortunate throne agent is waiting for Tacitus when he enters the dining room. Not that she has a choice in the matter. She’s been dressed in a nice tunic with pleated patterns, and a decent jacket. Her hair is up like it was when he first met her. She sits with her spine straight, glaring sullenly at Tacitus as he walks in. There’s a slight flush in her cheeks and he wonders if bathing was a traumatic experience for her.

“Interrogator Ariadne Milonas,” he greets her with a thin smile. “Lord Cavarr.” She inclines her head, but her expression doesn’t warm. “I’d stand, but I don’t have that option.” Her left hand is cuffed to her chair, Tacitus has been informed. “You’re proved quite the enterprising opponent so far,” he observes. “Precautions seem… prudent.” “Are we enemies, Cavarr?” she demands. “We needn’t be. I am a loyal servant of the Throne. If you are as innocent as you say, we should not be enemies!” “Interrogator,” Tacitus chides mildly, one eyebrow quirked. “I haven’t even had a chance to sit down.”

She watches sourly as he sits down. But she doesn’t press the point, and she accepts his offer of amasec. Soup is brought in almost immediately, with bread pre-broken so that her single free hand isn’t an impediment. “If you think two loyal servants cannot be enemies,” Tacitus tells her, “You must be naive. And I find that difficult to believe of the Inquistion.” “Two loyal servants shouldn’t be enemies,” she argues. “We should all place cooperation in the name of Throne and Imperium above our differences of opinion. But yes, I’m well aware that pettty squabbles are commonplace, thank you.” Tacitus resists the urge to tell her she is welcome. He takes his soup thoughtfully, and lets her speak. “But my only loyalties are to the Holy Ordos. I have no stake in any political or economic disputes. I am not concerned with quibbles in the interpretation of the Creed. I don’t care about violations of the Lex. I care only for the good of the Imperium. There is no reason to consider me an enemy.”

Tacitus sighs softly. “Your loyalty may be owed directly to the Throne,” he allows, “But I am a Scion of House Cavarr, and I owe mine to my elders and my Novatora.” Milonas hesitates, but her voice is serious as she asks “Would you put that loyalty above your faith, and the good of mankind?” “Eat your soup, Interrogator. It will go cold.” She looks almost shocked at the rebuff. Insulted – as expected. And surprised. Tacitus expects her to argue. But she sullenly takes his advice. She hasn’t, he supposes, had hot food in at least twelve days.

She doesn’t let go of the topic, though. “You are more than just a tool of your family,” she tells him in low tones, while running bread round the bottom of her bowl. “You are an individual, in the eyes of the God-Emperor.” Tacitus chuckles. “That is so. But shall we not place faith in our superiors? Has not the Emperor placed them, in His wisdom, above us for good reason?” “That depends what those superiors are doing. You are not an idiot, I know that you would recognise heresy or treason if you saw it.” “Interrogator, I did not lie to you when I said that I have no reason to suspect any such thing of my relations. Of course you cannot take my word at face value, but I promise you – House Cavarr is loyal. There is no conflict between my loyalty to my House and my loyalty to the Throne.” She is visibly skeptical, but the main course is being brought in, and she does not press the point.

They eat seafood from the last world, grains from storage and greens from hydroponics, spiced and served in a rich sauce. Milonas maintains her composure, but she is quiet, and her concentration on the food betrays her hunger. Tacitus talks about the food idly, and she is polite enough to acknowledge it with terse compliments.

While they wait for dessert, Tacitus brings the conversation back to more serious matters. “You are mistaken in your belief that the Inquisition is an apolitical organisation,” he tells her. He can almost feel her attention sharpen to a narrow focus. “Many Inquisitors have a political agenda, and I doubt that Lady Bright is any exception.” He smiles at the flicker of surprise in her eyes. Yes, I know who you work for. “And even beyond that, the Inquisition as a whole has a vested interest in maintaining its own power. Which necessarily involves butting heads at times with other Imperial powers. Such as the Navis Nobilite.” “I don’t have any problem with the Navis Nobilite,” she responds. “There is a long-standing understanding,” he explains, “that the Inquisition does not pry into the affairs of the Nobilite. We police our own ranks for mutation and heresy. And naturally we take such matters very seriously. As a matter of faith, of course, but also because if we did not, then we would not long retain our privileged status.” “No one is beyond investigation by the Holy Ordos,” she protests with some indignation. Tacitus cannot suppress – or rather, chooses not to suppress – another chuckle. “You are wrong, Interrogator. On paper that may be so. But in practice… here we sit.” Milonas glowers at him.

“Inquisitor Bright will not take this lightly,” she says. Inwardly, Tacitus smiles. It is an admission of her own helplessness, whether she realises it or not. “I hope not,” he agrees mildly. “Truthfully this is larger than either of us. You have your Inquisitor to answer to, and I am still barely an adult in the eyes of my kin. We each do as we must. More amasec, Interrogator?” She nods and mutters a terse “Please.”

He would not describe the rest of the dinner as ‘pleasant’ per se. She is sullen company. But he thinks that he sees a fraction less hostility in her and a fraction more resignation. He cannot count it as a victory. He has her in the palm of his hand already, he doesn’t need to talk her around to his point of view. Very soon it will not matter.

He picks at his dessert with sombre spirit. Milonas is not exactly a charming conversational partner. She is a stone-cold killer and has been a difficult, violent prisoner. Her duties in the Inquisition are doubtless often unpleasant. But for all her personal flaws she seems sincere in her faith. It is a shame to break her. He hasn’t the stomach to do it with protracted violence. Who knows how long it would take? He doubts anyone rises to the rank of Interrogator without a certain strength of spirit. No, he’ll do this the quick way and be done with this unpleasant duty. Strong or not, she is only human.

Once the table is cleared and the staff have departed, Tacitus sighs. “I am sorry,” he tells the Interrogator, “that circumstance has made enemies of us.” She is watching him uneasily, clearly picking up on his tension. He is not trying particularly hard to hide it. “What happens next?” she asks quietly. “Next?” He offers her a wan smile. “Next I return you to Inquisitor Bright. It would not do to hold one of her agents hostage.” She starts to relax fractionally, but he is not finished. “Unfortunately now, before I do that, I must make sure the message sent is very clear.”

Her eyes narrow in suspicion, and then start to widen in shock as Tacitus reaches for the veil that covers his brow. Her free hand flies up to shield her eyes, but it will not help her. 

If she is strong she may survive this. If she is very strong she may even recover, in time.

He lifts the veil in a smooth, practised motion. His Eye snaps open. Warplight floods the room. His soul sings as he channels raw power.

The Interrogator screams. The hand that she clamps over her face is no defence. The Warplight shines straight through, like a knife. She sees what Tacitus Sees – the Warp, in all its senseless, unfettered splendour. The intensity of his Gaze burns.

She tries to stand, and falls back against the chair as the shackles on her wrist and ankles restrain her. Her scream pitches upwards through terror into raw agony. Her back arches and she throws her head back. Her fingers claw at her eyes, raking bloody paths through the bubbling flesh, pain insufficient to stop her from trying to rip out the visions of madness seared into her brain.

Tacitus screws his Eye shut, but the screaming does not stop. He feels queasy. He has only had to do this once before, and that was in defence of his own life.

The room stinks of burning flesh.

She screams and screams – a wild, wretched sound no living soul should ever have to make.

Tacitus scrambles round the table to her side, catching her wrist and trying to pull it away from her face to stop her doing herself any more damage. He shouldn’t care, but he can’t just watch. She struggles against his grip with shocking strength, and he finds himself shouting for assistance.

A minute or more passes in a whirling, nauseous blur. She stops struggling, at last, beneath the weight of hands pinning her against the chair. An aide holds her head still while another tries to fit a chilled dressing across the mask of charred and ruined flesh that is her upper face. She keeps making awful low moans, full of horror and pain. How much of her mind remains is impossible to tell.

Tacitus swallows grimly. He hopes that she is sufficiently destroyed. He hopes that he can send her back to Bright and let the Inquisition do what they will to save her. If she is still too much herself…

He does not want to have to do this again.