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screamingatthevoid · 7 years ago

Text

Silence

Since a couple of things featured in this fic (brothers of silence and Jenetia Krole’s casual wear) came up on @askjenetiakrole, I re-edited it to fit (well, more or less) with new canon from Inferno.

When rare, perhaps unique, pariah twins brought into the Silent Sisterhood create unexpected complications, Knight-Commander Jenetia Krole asks Malcador the Sigillite for help.

[Silence on AO3] [My works on AO3]

SIX EN-DOGS RACED down the street towards the girl, viscous chem-stimms sloshing within vials bonded to their spines that clattered with the roll of their shoulders. Green eyes glowed faintly above mouths filled with rows of razor-sharp ferrosseous teeth, ropes of saliva trailing as they bayed for blood. Behind them came the witch hunter, furred cloak whipping behind her, red leather boots pounding against the rockcrete paving. She skidded to a halt, bringing a bolt pistol held in a studded leather grip to bear. Her quarry had reached a dead-end. The en-dogs had closed within five metres of the girl when they, too, suddenly stopped. Their barks faded into whimpering growls as they lay down. The witch hunter frowned, the lower half of the expression lost behind the barred half-helm of bronze. She moved her free hand to the wire bound hilt of the sword at her waist, slowly drawing it as she stepped cautiously forward. “Please,” pleaded the girl, her back against the wall, palm held out as if it could ward off an attack from the witch hunter.

The witch hunter drew level with the en-dogs, eyes widening as she caught sight of the obsidian pendant hanging from the girl’s neck. The sword snapped into a guard position, the hunter now scanning the buildings on either side. It was too late. The boy dropped from a first floor window, rock in his hand smashing against the red eagle tattoo on the witch hunter’s forehead. The witch hunter collapsed, blood streaming from her forehead as if the ink of the tattoo were running. It trickled over her shaved scalp, staining her hair a dirty pink where it was drawn up into her topknot. “Vahn, don’t,” said the girl as the boy picked up the fallen sword. He wore an identical pendant, the black stone carven with the ancient mark of the twins. He looked around him, snorting in amusement as the en-dogs crawled backwards, bellies to the ground, to maintain the same five metre distance from him as from his sister. His lip curled into a sneer as he turned back to the fallen witch hunter. “She has to die, Pierin,” he insisted, raising the sword with tip pointed down above her heart. “Or we have to – and I won’t let anything happen to you.” The bronze plate resisted three times before at last the blade plunged through the witch hunter’s battle-bodice and into her heart. Emerald eyes clouded without life to sustain them, and a palpable sense of relief washed over the twins. The en-dogs howled, jumping to their feet and running back whence they came. “Damnit,” cursed Vahn. “They’ll bring the others. We need to go, now.” “I’m going to find them,” Pierin stated matter-of-factly, as if it were somehow the logical course of action. “Are you mad? They’ll kill y- Hey!” shouted Vahn, hurriedly picking up the fallen witch hunter’s blade to chase his sister as she set off after the en-dogs.

The en-dogs stalked about the witch hunters’ heels, now leashed by two witch hunters holding lengths of thick chain attached to their spiked collars. Another three levelled flamers at the twins, barrels bathed in the blue glow of their pilot lights. They wore plate armour from waist to eye, each with a topknot gathered in a ring of bronze in the centre of a shaven crown revealed by their half-helms. Between white loincloths hanging from their waists and the fur cloaks at their backs, iron scale-mail could be glimpsed disappearing beneath thigh-high boots. The last was similarly attired, but for the fact that her plate armour continued down to brazen boots, marked out as their leader by pteruges descending from ornate eagle pauldrons, and as the eldest by the length of the ebon topknot which fell to her armoured elbows. She alone had a giant power sword drawn, active and raised en garde. Pierin walked directly towards the witch hunters, daring them to shoot. As she approached, she felt icy dread grip her heart, congealing with every step closer. “We’re not witches,” she told them. “Why are you hunting us?” The leader stepped forward, lowering her weapon and gesturing to the others to do the same. For all the barrels were pointed to the ground, the witch hunters remained alert, fingers on triggers ready to aim and fire at a moment’s notice. The leader pointed to that held by Vahn with a raised eyebrow. “Oh yeah, she’s dead,” he boasted, wildly brandishing the stolen blade. “You’ll be next if you don’t give us some answers. Bet you think you’re invincible in your fancy armour – well, she probably did too. Now she’s just-” He stopped abruptly as he caught sight of his sister’s exasperated stare. Shut up, idiot, she mouthed silently at him. The leader of the witch hunters continued to stare at him with her icy gaze, unfazed by his empty bravado. She made a series of quick hand movements and a young girl stepped forward from behind the witch hunters. She wore a simple white robe, bordered in red and held at her throat with a bronze clasp depicting an owl in flight. She was markedly younger than the witch hunters and, her face not obscured by a half-helm, had an altogether more human aspect. Vahn presumed she must still be in training, her shaven head a blank canvas where the topknot and eagle tattoo would one day follow. In the company of the witch hunters, it was little wonder her unassuming presence had passed him by. The leader continued to make hand gestures as the girl began to speak, and it finally dawned on Vahn that the witch hunter must be mute. “I am Ihlia Ahava, proloquor to the Oblivion Knight-Centura Teresa Lexovien,” the girl pointed to herself, then to the leader of the witch hunters in turn. “On behalf of whom I give voice. You are not witches, you are something far more pure and rare. You are pariahs, anathema to the witch. This comes at a cost, as you have no doubt discovered.” Pierin’s brow was furrowed, mouth slightly agape as she wondered if, for the first time, someone apart from her family really did understand her. Vahn was incensed, taking a step forward with stolen sword raised. The blade was heavy, shaking in his outstretched hand as he fought against gravity. “You don’t know anything about us!” he shouted. “Now go, hunt your witches or pariahs or whatever. I don’t really care. Just leave me and my sister alone.” “You do not have to be alone any longer,” Ahava continued, translating Lexovien’s signage. “The Silent Sisterhood is a refuge for our kind, the like of which you will not find elsewhere in all the galaxy. We offer you a chance to live a life unfettered by the contempt our gift draws out in others, in service to the Emperor of Mankind.” Vahn was about to launch into another tirade, but his sister stepped towards him, placing one hand over his mouth while the other lowered his sword arm. “I’ll go with you,” said Pierin, receiving a look of wide-eyed disbelief from her brother. “But not without him.” Ahava looked uncertainly at her mistress, awaiting a verdict. After a considered pause, Lexovien signed her decision. Whatever she had said, it caused Ahava to blink in shock, eyebrows threatening to disappear into her hairline. “Your terms are accepted,” she said, adding directly to Vahn “You will pay the debt of Sister Valdis’ life in service to the Silent Sisterhood.”

The chamber perched at the very tip of the brass spire of the Somnus Citadel. The walls rose straight up for ten feet to accommodate the statued alcoves and colourised crystal windows depicting scenes of bronze-armoured huntresses that alternated around the circumference. It was an aphonorium, constructed from sound-deadening materiel to produce a space of the most absolute silence. The Vow of Tranquillity, inscribed in truesilver filigree in a spiral curving up the domed ceiling, was the only words ever to have been spoken within. The chrome orb of Terra glittered through the obsidian-crystal portal at the apex, eternally held in the gaze of the citadel’s eye by Luna’s tidal lock. A ring of floor at the chamber’s edge fell away into a circular stair, forming a moat that separated the stone simulacra of the Silent Sisterhood’s founders from the central stone mosaic depicting the totems of the cadres flying or running through the heart of a blizzard, each according to their nature. The few that were not animalian were carried by the same brazen huntresses that stalked the windows, anonymous in full helms as they joined the wild hunt. In the very centre, astride the soaring majesty of a great, gold eagle clutching lightning bolts in its talons, stood Teresa Lexovien. Her topknot merged into her voidsheen cloak, hanging just above the eagle’s pinions in perfect stillness, the distinction between hair and fur blurred by streaks of steel-grey. She was armoured, but unlike the sisters on the hunt eschewed the full helm in favour of the more common half, that she might witness the vows to be made with her own eyes. Up the stairs came two sisters-in-waiting, robed in white with freshly cut eagle tattoos livid upon their brows, scalps newly shorn for the last time. They stood at the head of the stair facing Lexovien, making the sign of the aquila as they prepared to swear their sacred vows beneath the stone gaze of legendary Witchseekers Pursuivant, and before the piercing blue eyes of the Oblivion Knight-Centura. Ihlia Ahava and Shana Taika, marked Lexovien. You have served with honour as sisters novitiate. It is my judgement, with the assent of Sister-Senior Mundt, that you have earned the honour of becoming Witchseekers of the Silent Sisterhood, forsaking the medium of speech. If there is any fact that prevents your true and faithful service to the Emperor, beloved by all, speak now, or forever hold your peace, accepting that the judgement for betraying the Vow of Tranquillity can only be death. Silence, both of sound and of motion, greeted the ultimatum. I, Teresa Lexovien, Oblivion Knight-Centura, will receive your oaths. Let these words be the last to pass your lips. Lexovien drew her execution blade, resting its tip on the heart of the golden eagle. One hand rested on the pommel, the other free to continue marking. Novice-Sister Ahava, she marked, waiting as Ihlia Ahava stepped forward to kneel before her, and before the gold eagle of the Emperor, upon the black raptor of the Knight-Commander’s guard. “We are mute, but not without power. We are silent, but not without resolve. We are untouchable, but not without courage. We are sisters, and have but one father. We are seekers, and we shall find our prey. We are warriors, and woe to those we oppose. The Emperor’s mark is on our brow, all who deal with the Warp must beware. His judgement and vengeance are ours to deliver,” she recited the oath, long memorised, without hesitation or pause. She leaned forward, touching her lips to the eagle that formed the quillons of Lexovien’s sword, then rose making the sign of the aquila. In your silence, you are a Daughter of the Emperor, Sister Ahava, Lexovien marked. Ahava took her place behind Lexovien’s shoulder as the other sister novitiate was summoned forward. Novice-Sister Taika. Shana Taika took a knee in the same manner, repeating the process as she swore he own, identical, oath. In your silence, you are a Daughter of the Emperor, Sister Taika. Lexovien pivoted to face the two null maidens, bringing her sword up to a salute. She too kissed the eagle quillons, accepting their oaths to the Silent Sisterhood, before returning it to its scabbard. Go forth now as Daughters of the Emperor, she marked. By His will alone, all three marked as one, making the sign of the aquila. Ahava and Taika bowed as they exited the aphonorium.

Below the aphonorium lay the highest of the citadel’s reservoirs. Water ran from it through a network of pipes, the tear ducts of the citadel’s eye, passing through smaller reservoirs that serviced the numerous docking bays, to the very foot of the brass tower on the bleached plains of the Palus Somni. Here, a little of the precious liquid was allowed to escape, feeding into a glittering biodome that hung like a single tear threatening to fall from the Somnus Citadel into the Sinus Concordiae. Within, the water ran freely in unordered streams through a garden filled with a cornucopia of vibrant plant life. An old man picked his way along a path of packed earth that followed one of these, winding between blooming flowers and willows leaning protectively over the flow burbling over its rocky bed. The path, like the rest of the garden, was a work of loosely controlled chaos, created by the feet that had walked it over the years rather than for them, causing the old man to lean heavily on his staff as he traversed the uneven ground. An eagle wrought of gold perched at the top of his staff, glowing in a haze of perpetual flame. The chirping emitted by unseen vox-grilles conjured the amusing illusion that the burning raptor was singing. Above him, false sunlight shone out of an entoptic blue sky, rendered in imitation of the sky above Terra in millennia past, before the oceans were boiled from the cradle of humanity. The perfectly hemispheric limits of the biodome were the only geometric regularity to be found in the garden. He stopped where the packed earth gave way to grass. In the middle of the biodome, or near enough without a hand to guide, the water pooled into a miniature lake, koi glittering golden beneath the prismatic shimmer of the surface. A woman sat on the shore, barely visible behind a torrent of fiery hair so long that it pooled in the grass around her. When she rose, it fell past her waist despite the height of the topknot in which it was gathered. She smiled, the lower half of her face almost the same snow white of her dress where it was normally hidden behind an aquiline half-helm. She stooped to pluck a rose of blood red from a multi-hued cluster of flowers, then approached the old man leaning on his staff. Barefoot beneath the floor-length gown marked only by the black totem of the Raptor Guard, she seemed to glide rather than walk. Her proximity caused the fiery halo of the eagle to die down to a weak, flickering glow. She leaned into his voluminous hood, lips brushing his cheek like the touch of frost on a seemingly warm day. He fought to suppress a shudder, and met with only partial success. It’s good to see you, Mal, she marked. “Always a pleasure, Jen,” replied Malcador, forcing a smile against his every instinct. Liar, Jenetia Krole smirked. “Well, maybe pleasure isn’t quite the right word after all,” conceded Malcador. She passed him the rose, her fingers as cold and pale as her lips. Malcador inhaled deeply, savouring the aroma of a relic of ancient Terra. He thought it likely the phenomenon existed only in his mind, but the artificial blooms one found elsewhere in the Imperium never smelled as sweet. A smile, genuine this time, creased his wrinkled features. “Elliana is doing a wonderful job,” he commented, gesturing expansively at the riotous life of the garden. I’m sure she will be pleased to hear it. It seems an age since I have been able to leave the palace to enjoy it. The Emperor’s gardens always seemed too artificed - too controlled, a dark look descended on her as she paused. I expect Elliana will be sorry to leave it behind when she makes for Prospero. “Ah, I did think it unlikely the Knight-Commander would bring an old man all the way to Luna to discuss botany.” It’s not about Prospero. “Then the matter beneath the-,” his question trailed off as Krole continued to mark. Not directly, anyway. There is an issue in the ranks, and a dismissal would be…, her hands were briefly still as she sought the right word, settling on mouthing indelicate before continuing. I thought you might have use of a pariah. “I’ve never known you to have a problem with a Sister that you weren’t quite capable of dealing with yourself.” Not a Sister, a brother, replied Krole. Malcador’s eyebrow arched, his head turning slightly in feigned surprise. Krole rolled her eyes at him. One of my Knights-Centura brought him in. It would not have been my call.

He circled the edge of the ring, eying his opponent. Instinctively, one hand reached for his hotshot laspistol, forgetting the holster was empty. His sword was sheathed at his other hip, but he made no move for it. When his opponent charged, he sidestepped easily, turning the motion into a pirouette that ended with his shock maul connecting without its customary crackle of actinic discharge. It was only a combat servitor. He ran to meet it as it turned, knocking its outstretched combat blade to the side. It actually seemed to be getting more stupid, somehow. He leapt, free hand planted on its brainwashed skull as he performed a one-handed handspring over it. Its momentum carried it headlong into the wall. Behind it, he turned on his heel, tails of his mesh cloak flaring as he mimed drawing and firing his absent pistol. The servitor was used to dealing with opponents that stood their ground and fought it head-on. It was ill-equipped to deal with his staunch refusal to stand still. A grimace crossed his face as he spotted the glint of silver and obsidian on the floor. Running forwards, he slid between the servitor’s legs. The maul whipped out, knocking the legs from under his opponent to topple it. Skidding to a halt, he slipped the pendant he had retrieved from the ground back over his head – this time making sure to secure it under his tunic. Letting the servitor regain its feet unmolested, he resolved to meet it on its own terms. Maul and combat blade clashed time and time again, but he quickly found himself on the back foot. Hard pressed to fend off its relentless flurry of blows now that it was in its element, he found himself forced gradually backwards across the ring. He spun away to disengage, catching sight of a sister watching him from the observation platform above the training ring. Now that she wore the regalia of a fully-fledged null maiden, he almost didn’t recognise Taika with her face obscured behind a half-helm. He smiled at her, almost sustaining a serious injury as the combat-servitor’s blade swung at his exposed back. The alarmed look in Taika’s eyes alerted him in time to duck, the servitor scoring only a glancing blow across his cloak. “That was deliberate!” he shouted with a wink. You’re supposed to use your sword, Vahn, she marked, the ThoughtMark gestures inflected with a scolding tone. “Your wish is my command, my lady,” he bowed mockingly, this time receiving a blow to his bent back for his showmanship. The mesh prevented the blow from cutting, but it was hard enough to send him sprawling to the ground. He rolled, throwing his maul into the servitor’s face as it raised the combat blade for another strike. It staggered backwards, blood trickling from its nose down a vacant face. Rising, Vahn drew his sword. With a flick of the wrist, he disarmed the combat servitor to trigger its automated shutdown. “It’s way too easy, you see,” he explained as he reclaimed the fallen maul. After placing his weapons on an arming rack, he exited the training ring and raced up the steps to the platform, grin stretching from ear to ear as he pulled Taika into a hug. “Congratulations, Pierin! A null maiden at last.” Taika gave him a look of mock-disapproval as they separated. “I know, I know, it’s Shana,” Vahn shrugged. “I’ll never get used to it.”

Malcador listened closely as Krole explained how Vahn had come to join, informally, the Silent Sisterhood. “You accepted Teresa’s decision because to do otherwise would have lost Shana,” he summarised. Krole nodded. By the time the black ship returned to Luna, both she and he had proven themselves potentially useful. I admit the fact that they were twins played its part. “A curious thing indeed,” Malcador agreed. “Has such a thing ever been documented?” Not to my knowledge. Krole had at her fingertips hundreds of years’ worth of data on psykers and pariahs, possession of which would earn anyone outside the Sisterhood a swift execution. If she knew not of any such occurrence, it was not unlikely that the twins were the first example of co-gestated pariahs since the Age of Strife. “I understand why you did not dismiss him outright, but why keep him in the Sisterhood?” You’re playing the devil’s advocate. “Humour me.” There are few places a pariah can truly belong, and I was – I am – unwilling to give him to Culexus, the gesture to form the name of the assassin clade conveyed her contempt, a product of the bad blood between them. Promise me you won’t give him to them. Her eyes bored into his, seeming to penetrate into his mind. He reflected on the irony that under normal circumstances he was the mind-reader. There was an intensity behind those blue-grey discs that assured him the common belief that a pariah had no soul was quite untrue. “You have my word, Jen,” promised Malcador, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. He quickly withdrew it, physical contact with the Knight-Commander making him uncomfortable in his soul. It was a feeling difficult enough for a normal human to fight, much less a psyker. “To dismiss him would leave him without purpose, and any pariah knows how that feels – where that leads. I expect it would also alienate Shana, and so soon after swearing her oath.” The thought had crossed my mind. “Why the need to remove him from the Sisterhood at all, then? After all this time it seems he is a reasonable fit.” There are concerns he has grown too close to one of his sisters. “Ah, there’s the rub,” Malcador mused idly, twirling the rose in his hands. “‘The course of true love ne’er did run smooth’.” Krole fixed him with a withering glare, recognising the melodramatic tone that entered the Sigillite’s voice when quoting obscure writings of Ancient Terra. The Emperor’s great work teeters on the brink of ruin and we go to censure a Legion for the first time since- she caught herself before she could give the forbidden thought form. The Sisterhood is stretched thinner than we have been for a long time. 'True love' is a distraction I can ill afford.

Taika was waiting for him in the arming chamber when he emerged from the shower, fresh tunic thrown carelessly over his still-damp body. She leaned on an empty arming rack, which had until recently held the polished plate she now wore. An identical suit waited on the adjacent rack, glinting in the light of the lumen strips as if to entice its owner. Evidently Ahava had not yet come to claim it. Vahn smiled, brushing a dripping strand of hair from his face. He walked past his sister to his own arming rack, comparatively sparse with only the mesh cloak. He lifted it from the rack, always surprised at how heavy the armoured weave hidden under the leather made it, no matter how many times he had hefted it before, or how recently. Things will be different now, you know, marked Taika. “Sure, sure,” Vahn waved his hand dismissively. “I never really listened to you anyway.” That earned him a jab to the arm, putting an indignant expression on his face. I didn’t mean me, you idiot. “Ow. That was uncalled for,” he complained. “I’m sure I’ll get by. Ihlia says I talk enough for the two of us anyway.” That’s true enough. The two of them turned at the sound of footsteps echoed beyond the door. Ahava walked in, smile seeming to light up the room – though perhaps it was simply the glittering shine of her selenite mail bodysuit. Worn under a suit of the Silent Sisterhood’s vratine armour, it would fill gaps in the protection offered by the reinforced pates without compromising flexibility. Somebody called, marked Ahava, winking as she added And I’m guessing it wasn’t you, Shana. “Did you hear something? I didn’t hear anything,” replied Vahn, making a show to look around him for the source of some sound. Only this annoying mumbling sound, but I’ve had that pretty much all my life, marked Taika, gestures describing the problem as serious and chronic. “So the sense of humour does survive the vow!” laughed Vahn. “Good to know. Seriously though, Ihlia. Congratulations – Sister.” The emphasis is creepy, marked Ahava. “Isn’t it just,” Vahn agreed, stepping in close to lock his lips with hers. Ahava’s arms wrapped around behind the high collar of his cloak, fingers running through the wet curls of his hair as she held him in the kiss. When they pulled apart, Taika was nowhere to be seen. That’s awkward, marked Ahava. “Bye Shana!” shouted Vahn, stressing his sister’s new name to the point of absurdity. Ahava glared at him pointedly. “What? Some of us can still communicate without line of sight.” You’re an idiot, Vahn. “People keep saying that,” he muttered. “Or thinking that? Marking that?” Ahava shook her head with a smile. Any further mutterings were silenced by her lips pressing back up against his.

“As I recall,” said Malcador, in a tone that suggested he was absolutely certain his recollection was correct. “The Vow of Tranquillity evokes no measure of celibacy.” An oversight, marked Krole, dismissively. I don’t think anyone seriously considered the notion of two pariahs suppressing their instinctive mutual revulsion for an extended period, let alone in a combative order dealing with the horrors of the warp on a daily basis. “He shared a womb with another pariah, grew up with her,” Malcador considered. “You think this has inured him to the pariah effect?” I think he feels more comfortable with the pariah effect than without. “Why are you so sure this is a problem?” If it were a passing thing I would be inclined to agree with you and ignore it. It is more than that, though. I’ve been there, and it compromises operational efficiency. Every time. The false sunlight illuminating the biodome was beginning to fade, imitating the slide into twilight as the light of Sol was obscured from Luna by the intervening orb of Terra in the true sky beyond the dome. The debate could yet go on for hours, but Malcador had come to accept the futility of it. Other, more pressing duties beckoned, and could not be long ignored. Malcador sighed. “I suppose you may be right. In any case, you have listened to my counsel and, since you maintain your original stance, I will deal with the situation. Let it never be said I would not help a friend in need.” Thank you, Mal.

Ahava walked over to the arming rack on which her newly forged suit hung. Her fingers traced the contours of the interlocking plates, finding the seam between the halves of the cuirass. Lifting it reverently, she slipped it over her torso. Give me a hand, marked Ahava, struggling with the buckles that fastened the two halves. She had often aided Sisters in arming during her time as a sister-in-waiting, but only now did she understand how much harder it was to don one’s own armour unaided than it looked. Vahn stepped up behind her, taking the buckles out of her hands and securing them. He turned to the arming rack, retrieving the rerebraces for her upper arms. “You should at least be able to do it yourself, don’t you think?” he remarked as he fixed the armour in place. Why bother when I have my own squire, she shot back. Her arm movements caused him to drop the piece of armour he held to the floor. It resounded deafeningly as it bounced from the basalt flagstones, rolling across the chamber floor. “You’re going to need to not speak until I’m done,” scolded Vahn. She pursed her lips, narrowed eyes staring resolutely at the wall ahead as she allowed him to finish arming her without moving an inch. After her vambraces, he affixed her voidsheen cloak to her shoulders before concealing its mountings under curved pauldrons. Finally he fastened her sword belt around her waist, handing her studded gloves of the same red leather to complete her apparel. The helm? “It’d be a shame to hide such a pretty face.” She smiled, taking him by the hand. I love you, she mouthed, planting a kiss on his cheek. Her eyes flicked to the right, indicating the helm still sitting on the rack. “Fine,” answered Vahn, backing towards the rack. I love you too he mouthed. Hey, just because I can’t say it any more doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear you say it. “I love you,” said Vahn, slipping the half-helm over her head and kissing the barred mask that now concealed the lower half of her face. She was about to mark something when he tilted his head to the side, pointing to his ear to indicate he was receiving a vox transmission. He raised his arm to speak into the mouthpiece mounted on his wrist. “Vahn, receiving.” As he listened to the clicks of Orsköde in his ear, his face took on a look of confusion, giving way to surprise. What is it? “It appears I have become something of a celebrity,” replied Vahn, puffing out his chest. “I am summoned, by the Knight-Commander no less, to an audience with Lord Malcador the Sigillite. Don’t worry, I won’t forget you little people when I’m created High Lord of the Senatorum Imperialis.” What have you done this time? marked Ahava, her exasperation conveyed through the inflection of ThoughtMark. “Yeah, I guess it is more likely I’ve done something highly illegal,” Vahn conceded with a wry grin.

Vahn found the Sigillite sitting on the bough of a willow tree in the garden. His staff was planted in the ground in front of him, blazing like a beacon to signal his position in the fading light. It seemed to Vahn that the fire crackling around the eagle was in constant danger of setting the whole biodome ablaze. The Sigillite held out a hand as he approached, bidding him to stop a few paces away. “My lord,” Vahn intoned as he bowed to the First Lord of Terra, the most powerful man in the Imperium after the Emperor and the Warmaster Horus Lupercal. “Vahn,” Malcador stretched the word out, rolling it in his mouth as if tasting its quality. “The Brother of Silence.” Vahn nodded, waiting silently. Malcador toyed with a rose for a moment before looking up to meet his gaze. “How does that work, exactly? A brother of the Silent Sisterhood?” “The bond between sisters is not diminished by their having a brother,” answered Vahn, the response long practiced in explaining the matter to sisters-in-waiting who had not yet learned to reign in their curiosity. “Neither in a biological family, nor in the Silent Sisterhood. I am a brother to the sisters, without being of the Sisterhood.” Malcador chuckled. “You speak a great deal, for a Brother of Silence.” “The irony has been pointed out to me. I will never be allowed to take the Vow of Tranquillity, the sisters only call me ‘Brother of Silence’ because, well, they don’t know what else to call me,” Vahn shrugged. “As you say, I am something of a novelty.” “What, then, is your role in the Sisterhood?” “I have always been treated broadly the same as my sister, though I expect that’s going to change now that she has sworn the oath. It seems likely I shall forever hold a position not unlike a sister-in-waiting.” “Would you like to pursue a career where you are not limited in that way?” “Are you offering me a job, my lord?” “A single task, for the time being,” explained Malcador. “I have need of someone with your talents. After that – who knows? I’m sure it will not be the last time I have such a need.” The Sigillite held out the rose to Vahn, proffering it as a physical representation of his offer. It occurred to Vahn that the beautiful bloom atop a cruelly spiked stem was an apt metaphor for Malcador’s reputation. “May I ask a question, my lord?” asked Vahn. “Certainly,” Malcador smiled at him indulgently. “Why me? There are others more powerful and more skilled than I.” “Indeed there are,” agreed Malcador. “The Sisterhood is, however, required elsewhere.” “The entire Sisterhood?” “Some will remain on Terra,” Malcador affected a stern look. “Some must always remain on Terra. Many more, as you can imagine, sail the stars the length and breadth of the Imperium as we speak. As many as can be spared, though, will soon be departing. That leaves you, unless I wish to draw the ire of Commander Krole,” he leaned in close to Vahn. “Even for the First Lord of Terra, that would not be wise.” “It sounds like I don’t really have a choice,” Vahn’s voice took on a confrontational tone. The corner of Malcador’s mouth turned up in a half-smile, amused by the boy’s boldness. “No.” Vahn stepped forward, reaching out for the rose. He hesitated, withdrawing his hand, then snatched the flower with a sigh. The Sigillite seemed unfazed at his proximity, making him wonder just how powerful a psyker he must be. He ran a finger through the petals, narrowed eyes staring into the shadow Malcador’s hood cast over his features. “My sister?” “I will make sure you have the opportunity to see her whenever possible. For now, you should say goodbye.” Neither of them mentioned Ahava, and each was glad of the other’s silence.

Beyond the blue tint of the docking bay’s integrity field, an Aquila Lander hove into view. It passed through with a ripple into the vaulted space, the craft comically small in the vastness designed to accommodate on of the infamous black ships. It flew towards a smaller sub-hanger sunk into the wall, wings folding as it landed with a metallic clang on magnetising struts. Taika watched the disembarkation ramp, fists balled into fists as she fought back tears. Her brother Vahn stepped out, a rose wrapped with a silver chain in one hand. Her sadness was reflected in his own face. She had left her half-helm in her chambers, leaving her face exposed as she smiled weakly at the sight of him, for what would be the last time for an unknowable period. They told me you’re leaving. “Yes,” he replied after a long pause, for once seemingly lost for words. Why? “What choice do I have?” he smiled sadly, placing his hand on his sister’s shoulder. “I’ll miss you.” Taika nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m coming back,” he promised. He held out the rose, the obsidian disc of his pendant nestled in the crimson petals, trailing silver chain wrapped around the spiked stem. His sister took it without a word. They embraced, holding each other tight - as if for the last time. Tears trickled down Vahn’s cheeks as, almost choking on the words, he whispered in her ear. “Tell Ihlia I love her.”

[AN: Ihlia & Teresa go to Prospero in Saga of the Traitor]

#warhammer 40k #horus heresy #sisters of silence #silent sisterhood #fanfic #fanfiction

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portfolio-afstudeerplan-blog · 7 years ago

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In mijn afstuderen staat het onderzoeken van mijn eigen engagement en dat van anderen centraal. De ingrediënten zijn er, nu is het aan mij er een recept uit samen te stellen. Zoals u reeds in mijn inleiding, beeld en woord heeft kunnen lezen en zien doe ik dat vooral beschouwend. Ik neem telkens een ander standpunt in, een andere houding aan. Daarbij ga ik niet te werk vanuit een overkoepelende onderzoeksvraag, maar laat ik mijn licht schijnen over diverse casussen waarmee ik in aanraking kom in de praktijk. Een kleine greep daaruit zijn: sekse/gender, autonomie/appropriatie, ‘history’/‘herstory’ en extrinsikiteit/intrinsikiteit. Ik ga zowel subjectief als objectief aan de slag –– in mijn achterhoofd houdend dat iets als volledige objectiviteit natuurlijk niet bestaat. Ik zal doorgaan met het maken van collages, het met beeld en woord creëren van mijn gejuxtaposeerde ‘realiteiten’. Het bevragen en verantwoorden van mezelf als subject stel ik voorop. Of ik dat met mijn huidige medium blijf doen, laat ik open voor nu. Er zou immers weinig ruimte over blijven voor verrassingen, positieve en negatieve, wanneer ik iets onvoorspelbaars als een persoonlijke zoektocht op voorhand zou plannen. Die vrijheid, subjectiviteit, wil ik mij juist blijven permitteren. De vorm kan dan ook nog alle kanten op: een serie, boek, manifest, lezing, installatie, performance, enzovoort. Ik weet echter wel dat ik er een ‘objectief’ opponent tegenover ga plaatsen. Een voorbeeld uit een college van Mirjam zette mij daartoe aan. Zij vertelde hoe stichting entoen.nu recentelijk de ‘Canon van Nederland’ heeft samengesteld: een vijftigtal vensters tellend educatief product dat de cultuurhistorische ontwikkeling van Nederland behelst. En jawel, daar zijn ook eindelijk vrouwelijke sleutelfiguren aan toegevoegd. Progressie! Tegelijk constateerde ik dat ik mezelf, idem Nederlander, niet voelde vertegenwoordigd. Waar waren de queers –– zij die er altijd, al dan niet latent, zijn geweest? Waarom werd er wel aandacht besteed aan de seksuele revolutie, maar niet aan de queergemeenschap die al actievoerend aan de rokken hing van de vrouwenbeweging? En hoe was het mogelijk dat het geen lhbt-kunstenaars erkende, terwijl de Nederlandse samenleving juist zo rijk is aan diversiteit? Enerzijds vecht ik met mijn beelden voor mijn plaats in de geschiedenis en bevestigt de canon wederom dat deze er voor een non-normatieveling als ik niet is, anderzijds bewijzen mijn onderbuikgevoel en een zomervakantie vrijwilligerswerk bij lhbt-erfgoedorganisatie IHLIA mij het tegendeel. Ik voel mij als toekomstig docent dan ook verantwoordelijk mijn vak niet uit te oefenen conform één canon. Gedegen kunstonderwijs leert men juist te kijken met nieuwe ogen. Zij heeft het uitzonderlijke vermogen ons in aanraking te laten komen met het onbekende, de Ander. Om die reden wil ik de geschiedenis induiken, queerkunst verkennen en mijn eigen canon samenstellen. Niet om een alternatief te bieden of de huidige canon te verwerpen –– deze is immers samengesteld op basis van door de overheid gestelde kerndoelen, maar om een aanvulling te geven, docenten en leerlingen aan te sporen vanuit een andere ‘gaze’ hun erfgoed van de afgelopen eeuw te bestuderen en mijn eigen beelden in een kunsthistorische traditie te plaatsen. Elk decennium zal in het teken staan van een fundamentele historische gebeurtenis waar een relevante lhbt-kunstenaar aan wordt gekoppeld. Daarbij streef ik naar de representatie van verschillende canons: queers in al hun kleuren en schakeringen. In de bovenstaande alinea’s heb ik gepoogd uiteen te zetten waar ik mij hard voor maak. Evenveel waarde hecht ik aan het begeleiden van anderen bij het verbeelden en -woorden van hun ‘engagement’. Het stimuleren van dit stukje intrinsikiteit vormt dan ook het uitgangspunt van mijn stagewerkplan. Zo creëer ik een mogelijkheid voor betekenisvol leren. Tegelijk verlangt het bildungsprincipe, waarop het gymnasiumonderwijs is gefundeerd, dat leerlingen zich de meest complexe onderwerpen toe-eigenen. Bijgevolg wordt het ‘Ik’ van meet af aan de kop ingedrukt. De leerlingen verliezen hun oorspronkelijke drijfveer, raken halverwege hun proces het spoor bijster en verzuipen in onderzoeken naar allerhande wereldproblematiek. Daarom wil ik op mijn stage –– en bij voorkeur ook op andere gymnasia –– met behulp van onderzoeksinstrumenten als interview en observatie de balans op gaan maken: in hoeverre wordt het engagement van leerlingen op dit niveau gestuurd door het schoolsysteem en de verwachtingen die zij op hen projecteert? In mijn afstudeerprestatie maak ik dus onderscheid tussen een tweetal studieobjecten: mezelf en eindexamenleerlingen op gymnasia. Om enig overzicht te behouden, vertrek ik vanuit het gedachtegoed van filosofe Hannah Arendt en onderwijspedagoog Gert Biesta. Op het snijvlak tussen onderwijs en engagement representeren deze critici namelijk uitersten. Terwijl Arendt pleitte voor een strikte scheiding tussen het onderwijs en andere maatschappelijke domeinen, omdat de principes van nataliteit (1.) en pluraliteit (2.) volgens haar gepaard gaan met de ‘volwassenwording’, betoogt Biesta dat geen enkel ontwikkelingsstadium een garantie is voor het kunnen handelen in vrijheid en men lering kan trekken uit het gegeven niet geëngageerd te ‘zijn’. Ik ga mezelf en de leerlingen de spiegel voorhouden. Neigt mijn, hun, ons, ‘engagement’ naar het concept van Arendt of Biesta? En welke rol speelt ontwikkeling, en dus ‘volwassenheid’, daar werkelijk bij? Nadat ik heb geïnventariseerd hoe ik en mijn leerlingen ons verhouden tot onderwijs en engagement in de lijn van Arendt en Biesta, ga ik proberen een uitspraak te doen over het principe van ‘in de wereld komen’. Zo til ik mijn afstudeerprestatie naar een hoger niveau. Daarbij verschuift de focus van kwalitatief onderzoek naar mijn atelierpraktijk. Besta ik in en met de wereld wanneer ik mij bijvoorbeeld feministische kunst toe-eigen? Socialiseer (3.) of subjectiveer (4.) ik dan? En vooral: kan mijn praktijk fungeren als een oefenplaats voor dialoog, een ‘volwassen’ omgang met de Ander? 1.) In de woorden van Arendt: “de feitelijke geboorte, als het begin en beginner-zijn en daarmee de conditie van geboortelijkheid.” 2.) In de woorden van Arendt: “een van de meest fundamentele condities van menselijk leven in zoverre ze berust op het principe van nataliteit, waardoor vreemdelingen en nieuwkomers steeds de menselijke wereld binnendringen, nieuwkomers waarvan de daden niet kunnen worden voorzien door degene die er al zijn en die binnen korte tijd zullen vertrekken.” 3.) In de woorden van Biesta: “het zich leren verhouden tot tradities en praktijken.” 4.) In de woorden van Biesta: “het worden van een eigen individu, een persoon die in onze democratie mee kan doen.” _________________________________________________________________________________________________________ S C H E M A

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________ D O E L E N - Het blijk geven van een verfijnd beschouwend vermogen. - Het aangaan van een wisselwerking tussen casussen uit de praktijk en mijn afstudeerprestatie. - Het genieten van kennis van allerhande denkbeelden over mijn casussen. - Het onderstrepen van de meerwaarde die een subjectief onderzoeksinstrument heeft voor mijn ontwikkeling op beeldend vlak. - Het aanvullen van theoretische concepten met inzichten die in het atelier zijn opgedaan. - Het ontwerpen van een educatief product dat bijdraagt aan de representatie van Nederlandse queers. - Het plaatsen van mijn activiteiten in een kunsthistorische traditie. - Het blootleggen van de systemen die schuilgaan achter het al beeldend uiten van engagement. - Het duiden waar ik mij begeef op het snijvlak tussen onderwijs en engagement.

_________________________________________________________________________________________________________ G L O B A L E P L A N N I N G

- Het hele jaar door ga ik minstens één dag per week, in elk geval standaard op woensdag, praktisch aan de slag in de Rozenstraat en houd ik daar een logboek bij. Op deze dag rooster ik alle andere activiteiten uit om in opperste concentratie te kunnen werken. - Het hele jaar door bespreek ik mijn bevindingen met op zijn minst één docent. - Van september tot en met januari ben ik elke donderdag en vrijdag op mijn stage te vinden. In de weekenden werk ik mijn werkplan, reflectieverslagen en portfolioproducten bij. Tussentijds bereid ik mijn lessen voor en loop ik waar mogelijk extra middagen mee. - De maanden december en januari zullen in het teken staan van theoretisch vooronderzoek. Elke maandag ga ik relevante bronnen en data verzamelen en deze opslaan in Mendeley. - De maanden februari en maart zullen in het teken staan van uitvoering. Ik kritstalliseer de kern uit mijn vooronderzoek en belicht deze vanuit verschillende kanten. Daarbij baken ik mijn onderzoeksterrein af en sta ik mezelf toe ‘productgerichter’ te gaan werken. Op maandag, donderdag en vrijdag rooster ik alle andere activiteiten uit om in opperste concentratie thuis en/of in de mediatheek te kunnen werken. De weekenden zullen in het teken staan van reflectie en verslaglegging. - De maand april zal in het teken staan van het zoeken van een adequate presentatievorm bij mijn proces en mogelijke resultaten. Daartoe woon ik relevante workshops bij.

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