Chapter Text
She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror, her eyes on the thin trail of superficial cuts winding along her slender waist. Her triumph rope was not very long, not very impressive - unlike her sire's. She had black twists: every single one of them a defeat, a failure, a painful memory of her copious shortcomings. Her gaze shifted to her fist, still buried in the splintered mirror. She gritted her teeth against the pain as she ground her knuckles against the shattered glasswork and stared balefully at her reflection. She hated her reflection.
'You are strong, a warrior,' that's what centurion Khârn said.
'You are not some sniffling weakling,' that's what her sire said.
She disagreed. She was too tall, too thin: all wiry limbs and bony joints. Her long, shorn up and dreadlocked dark hair was dull as shadow, her pale eyes blue as a wintery sky. Her features were too stubborn, too sharp; her lips too thin and her nose too straight, too aquiline. She envied Athyrea with her perfect proportions and soft features and charming smile. Everybody loved her.
She wondered if he would have loved her more if she had been pretty, charming – a princess like Athyrea? She scowled at herself. She doubted it: her sire did not care for outward appearances. She must be too weak, then. He despised weaklings. She must become stronger – train more, cry less. Surely, then he would love her.
She removed her fist and stared dully at her ruined knuckles. The skin had torn, oozing blood and plasma. She could see the pale bone underneath the thin layer of shredded flesh. It had chafed. Even her bones were weak. She looked back at the mirror, now splattered with her blood. She bared her teeth at her reflection and growled as she dug her fingertips among the shimmering splinters, prying at the large shard stuck in their midst. Her skin broke anew as she clawed at the sharp edges, dug her fingers underneath it and tore it free. She clenched her hand around the jagged shard, numbing herself to the biting pain.
After a moment she slowly brought it up to her chest and to the spot where the rope ended. There were many black twists there. The tip touched her skin and bit into her flesh. The line was thin and straight and wept bloody tears. She discarded the shard and reached for the small pile of fillings in front of her, ground from the shard of bronze encased ceramite that lay beside it. She clenched her teeth as she rubbed the metal dust on the cut. It stung ferociously. She squeezed her eyes shut to prevent the tears from spilling. The physical pain was nothing compared to the pain that tore at her heart.
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The backhand struck the side of her face like a sledge hammer. A cry of shock and pain escaped her despite herself. She stumbled and dropped the dataslate as she fell to her hands and knees, her ears ringing from the unanticipated blow. Her jaw ached and her cheek stung as the steely taste of blood welled up in her mouth. Water brimmed in her eyes but she squeezed them shut. She must not cry. She was not a weakling.
A gasp escaped her when his large hand closed around the base of her neck and shoulders like a vice, and hoisted her up into the air as if she weighed nothing at all. The world span and for a heartbeat or two she flew - and then her wings were ripped away and she collided heavily against the plasteel wall. Stars exploded behind her eyes and pain flared sharply in her chest. She gasped and coughed as she slumped to the floor, the air knocked clean out of her lungs. Her stomach turned and bile rose in her throat as she fought against the vertigo in her head and tried to blink the stars from her eyes. Through the blur she saw him stalk towards her, his broad frame blotting out the light of the electroscones. She struggled to sit up, ground her teeth to stop the tears from spilling. She tried not to let him see how much it hurt.
“I am sorry, father,” she whispered. Her voice shook as she weathered his wrathful gaze but her words only seemed to anger him further, his features contorting with rage. She cringed – stopped herself, but he had seen it and his hand flexed into a fist once more.
“No! Angron, stop!” Khârn’s shout rang through the silent room. She heard his rapidly approaching footfalls. “It’s not Ankeara’s fault!” He burst into her vision and put himself bodily between them, his hands raised in a placating gesture that would have no effect. “She merely compiled the report!” He steeled himself, she could tell from the way he squared his shoulders. “If there is anyone to blame, it is me. I was in command!” The furious roar that tore itself from her sire’s throat rattled her bones and shook her very soul. She curled up, whimpering pitifully, unable to bear that terrifying sound.
Khârn never stood a chance.
Swift as lightning Angron struck, his large fist slamming into the Astartes’ face with a force that would have pulped the skull of a lesser man. Khârn reeled, blood gushing from his once more shattered nose as he faltered and started to fall. Angron caught him by his face and dragged him in close, blood oozing through his broad fingers. He crouched and turned, dragging the mangled Astartes along as he grabbed the belt of Khârn’s armour and put him across the room like an oversized shot. With a bone splintering force Khârn collided against the far wall, leaving a formidable dent in his wake as he slid numbly to the ground. Angron stormed after him, howling, blinded by his rage. He grabbed Khârn by the back of his neck and slammed him against the steel grating of the floor. Ankeara curled up further and closed her eyes but could not ignore the sounds - the heavy pounding that shook the very ground she lay upon. Again and again it came, as steady and predictable as the terrified beating of her heart. She made herself as small as she could. Eventually, he would grow weary. Eventually, he would stop.
It always felt like an eternity but in reality it must be mere minutes. The sounds stopped and she dared open her eyes. Her father stood over Khârn with his back towards her, his broad shoulders heaving with his laboured breath, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Khârn did not move. She watched as her sire dropped heavily to his knees, his fists balled as he beat them against the ground until they were red with his own blood. He howled and hunched and grasped at his skull, drawing bloody smears across his coppery skin and the painful augmetics lodged there. His muscles locked and his body shook and the sight of his suffering tore at her heart.
She moved and white hot pain shot through her chest – something must have broken again. She ground her teeth and struggled up. His howls were quieting into grunts, his breathing was slowing and his heart rate was dropping, and she needed to be there for him. After the anger, came guilt… and then more anger. She ignored the pain and dragged herself to him. Even now, as he knelt and shook, violence exuded from him like heat but she paid it no heed. She did not fear her sire. She did not.
“I am all right, father,” she managed softly as she put a gentle hand to his shoulder. “Khârn will be fine, too.” She dared not look at the unmoving Astartes. He had to be fine. He would be fine. It was her fault – she was weak, she could not withstand her sire’s rage. Khârn would not let her; he would stand between them and take the beating meant for her. He suffered because of her - It was all her fault.
She could hear her sire’s teeth grind together. “It is… n-not… fine…” he growled out. Blood flecked spittle stained his lips.
“It is,” she replied firmly as she pulled herself up beside him and put her small hand across his large one. “There’s no harm done,” she continued, and she almost convinced herself. “It will heal.”
He shook his head and meant to speak but only a growl came out as his hands clenched into fists once more. The knuckles went white and she could feel the tendons underneath her small hand thrumming with contained fury.
“It will be fine,” she said, and she had to believe it. She put her arms around his thick neck and hugged him tightly. When he lifted a bloody hand to her back and pressed her to him, she could no longer stop her tears from falling. She buried her face against his broad shoulder so he would not see, and bit her lower lip so that he would not hear. Someday, she’ll be stronger. Someday, he’ll feel better. Someday… everything will be all right.
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She stared at her reflection in the broken mirror as she raised her hand to her cheek and brushed past the mark outlining itself there in harsh blue. She pressed her own knuckles to it and saw how much larger those upon her skin were. His anger had left its mark on her. It always did. It did not matter. They were all right again, now.
She reached for the discarded mirror shard. This time, it did not hurt when she cut a new twist for her rope. This time, she did not reach for the ceramite dust. For this time, it was a red twist – a victory.
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