Kratos5627
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The Aftermath
🕑 Added 2025-05-23 15:54:09 +0000 UTCWell Author here, I am suffering from a fever right now. So, my productivity is suffering because of it. So, release rates are slow because of it. Enjoy the chapter though.
---
She wasn’t waking up.
Faevelith hadn’t moved in hours. Maybe days. Not with her lying there, hooked up to alien machines and breathing through someone else’s mercy.
Cassian stood still, back straight but hollowed out inside. His hands were clenched and unclenched so many times they hurt. He didn’t remember when he started doing that.
There were a few Eldars around—healers, maybe. Didn’t matter. They didn’t speak to him. Just moved around her with quiet efficiency, checking whatever needed checking. Adjusting machines. Fixing something psychic he didn’t understand. They didn’t say a word to him. Didn’t look at him, either. Maybe they knew. Maybe they didn’t.
Faevelith looked dead. Pale. Drained. Her skin had that paper-thin look, like someone took all the blood out of her. There were lines stuck into her arms, something gently humming near her temple. The room buzzed with soft energy—psychic barriers or something.
He should’ve been in that bed, not her.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to be the one paying for his mistake.
He’d been so sure. So damn sure. Thought he could handle it. Thought he had it under control. The daemon played him like a fucking fiddle, and he let it. Walked right into the trap with a smile on his face.
And she pulled him out.
She saved him.
Now she was in a coma. Not because of some war, not because of a battle—because of him. His arrogance. His bullshit.
He stared at her face, hoping for a twitch. A breath. Anything. Nothing.
It hit him in waves. Guilt, regret, rage—all wrapped up in this cold, silent helplessness. He wanted to scream, to break something, to hit the walls until his hands split open.
But that would’ve been for him. That would've been about making him feel better.
So he stood there. Still. Mouth tight, fists clenched, jaw locked.
She never blamed him. Never once looked at him with fear. She trusted him.
And he let her down like this.
This wasn’t some heroic sacrifice. This wasn’t noble. It was fucking stupid. It was wrong. And now she was in coma.
And all he could do was sit here praying for a miracle.
—
The small room was a bit cramped. Dim lights flickered over the cold metal walls, echoing the mechanical hum of the warding machines around Faevelith’s bed. Cassian was sitting in a chair nearby, meditating, trying to calm his turbulent mind.
Then, Farron stepped inside. The door hissed shut behind him. He glanced around the room, gaze landing on the sleeping Faevelith first, then shifting to Cassian. He looked tired—less from lack of sleep, more from everything else. Too much to carry, too little time.
"Smells like antiseptic and regret in here," Farron muttered, walking over. “How long’s she been out?”
Cassian opened his eyes, blinked once. “Since the procedure. Haven’t left her side.”
Farron nodded slowly and dragged a chair from the corner. It scraped against the floor, too loud in the stillness. He sat down, stretching his augmetic leg with a faint whirr.
“Brought some recaf.” He handed over a steaming tin mug from under his coat. “Barely drinkable, but better than nothing. Can’t believe the Eldar drink liquid grass.”
Cassian took it. “Thanks.”
They sat in silence for a while. Farron sipped from his own mug, staring at the blinking lights on one of the machines. He tapped his fingers against the metal cup.
Cassian glanced at him. “You okay?”
“I should be asking you that,” Farron said. “But I guess neither of us are.”
Another moment passed. The room hummed and blinked around them.
Then Farron looked over. Not joking now. The scientist in him finally pulling to the surface.
“So,” he said, voice flat now, more focused, “how the hell did this happen? One second you’re fine, next you’re possessed. Out of nowhere. No warning. No sign. What the fuck, Cassian?”
Cassian’s head dipped. He wasn’t ready to say it—yet. But Farron’s bluntness forced it out. He took a slow breath and sighed.
“It started the moment we met Farseer Elithor.”
Farron raised a brow. “Back then? The first time? Huh. I thought that was just a normal conversation—well, as normal as it gets with a guy who had a daemon prince squatting in his skull.”
Cassian gave a slow nod. “Yeah. That was the moment. The bastard spoke to me-”
“Wait,” Farron interrupted, “You mean the corruption started then? When you met him? That was weeks ago Cassian.”
Cassian ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Yes, In hindsight… now that it’s gone, I can finally see it. All of it. The signs. The pull. The thoughts I thought were mine—the confidence, the certainty, that insane plan to shove a daemon prince into a vat-grown body. They weren’t mine. Not fully.”
He swallowed hard, eyes distant. “It didn’t scream or roar. It whispered. Slid in slow and steady. Like poison in a drink, drop by drop. I didn’t notice. It used me—used my pride, my damn survival instincts, the same ones that kept me alive on two daemon worlds. Twisted them into something useful.”
Farron shook his head. “You’ve been around Chaos more than anyone I know. Two daemon worlds, right? How did this one break you when you survived those?”
Cassian laughed bitterly. “Because this wasn’t brute force. It was pride. Deep down, I thought I could do this. Like I had done countless times before. That I would succeed. Getting out of near impossible situations.” His exhaled. “Then life smacked me hard on my face.”
“What now?” Farron asked quietly.
“ Faevilith… because of what happened to her. She is my only concern for now.” Cassian looked at her. “She’s in a coma, Farron. She sacrificed everything. And I let it happen. I let that daemon use me. I let my arrogance and pride make her a victim.”
Farron’s expression softened for a moment. “You think this is your fault?”
Cassian shook his head slowly, “I know it is. If I’d been smarter. If I hadn’t been so damn cocky… none of this would have happened. She’d be awake.”
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Farron rubbed his temple, then let out a sigh.
“You’re a survivor, Cassian. You’ve been through hell and back. Faevelith’s vital signs are fine, She will wake up.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened. “I don’t even know if I can fix this.”
Farron leaned forward, voice lower. “You start by admitting you’re not perfect. You lean on the people who care. You stop trying to carry everything alone.”
Cassian looked up, meeting Farron’s eyes for the first time. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing worth fixing ever is.” Farron smirked. “Besides, I’m not about to let you drown in your own guilt. I’m the Magos. Fixing broken things is what I do.”
Cassian allowed a brief, tired smile. “Thanks Farron”
“Don’t mention it. You are my student. I have responsibility over you.”
They sat in silence again, the only sound the steady beep of machines and Faevelith’s fragile breath.
Then, Cassian glanced over at Farron, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion shadowing his face. “You know? I was corrupted. But you? You weren’t corrupted. So why? Why did you agree to that insane plan? To sealing a daemon prince in that vat-grown body? Why the hell did you go along with it?”
Farron’s gaze didn’t waver. He let out a slow breath, folding his hands on the table between them like he was weighing something heavy before setting it down. “Curiosity,” he said quietly. Blunt. Honest.
Cassian frowned. “Curiosity?”
Farron nodded, his expression unreadable. “Yeah. That’s all it was, at the start. I wanted to study it. The daemon prince, the nature of what it is. Warp entities… they’re not just creatures. They aren’t like us. They’re not born of flesh or logic. They don’t live the way we do. The materium and the immaterium—they operate on different rules. Different laws.”
He paused, studying Cassian with something between weariness and obsession. “I’ve spent decades trying to understand how reality fits together. But the warp—it’s like staring into a mirror that hates you. Are they made of thought? Of feeling? Some impossible blend of both? Daemons are a paradox. They are immortal, yet killable. Real, but unreal. A thing of dreams and terror, walking among us.”
He looked down for a moment, as if ashamed. “I didn’t agree with your plan because I thought it was a good plan. I agreed because I had to see it. I wanted to see what would happen. To learn. To peel back the veil, even if just for a second.”
Cassian leaned forward, the exhaustion briefly pushed aside by the flicker of interest. “So you agreed because you thought you could control it? Study it safely?”
Farron nodded slowly. “I trusted you. I trusted that you could handle it. And, yeah, I had confidence in the science — in the containment methods, the wards, the vat-grown body. It seemed like the perfect solution: isolate the daemon, keep it contained, and learn from it without risking ourselves.”
He rubbed his chin, eyes darkening. “But we didn’t expect the price.”
Cassian’s voice was low, “Faevilith.”
“Yeah.” Farron’s face tightened. “She paid for it. For all of it. The daemon’s sealed, but it wasn’t without cost. We thought the containment was enough. We thought it was clean and neat.”
He shrugged, bitterness creeping in. “But the warp doesn’t work like that. It always comes with a price. And sometimes, that price is someone you care about.”
They sat in silence, the weight of the daemon’s shadow lingering even in its cage.
---
It wasn’t sleep.
It wasn’t death, either.
Faevelith hung in the space between.
No dreams. No voices calling her back. Just the weightless drag of awareness without direction. Her body was a distant rumor, numb and uncooperative. Her thoughts came like flickers of a dying circuit—brief jolts of clarity swallowed by static.
She remembered the ritual. The daemon. The cold pressure of the warp tearing at the seams of reality.
And Cassian. Always at the edge of a mistake.
She’d felt it before he had. Not in words, not in some vision—just a shift. A tension in the air around him. Like a string pulled taut. The daemon wasn’t shouting, wasn’t clawing. It was there in the margins, whispering through his instincts, twisting them into something that still sounded like him.
That was the danger.
She hadn’t stopped him because she couldn’t—not without risking everything.
He was already entangled. Already leaning too close. A sudden shove might’ve snapped something vital.
So she went along with it. All the way to the edge. Watching. Waiting.
And when the moment came—when it all began to tip—she threw everything she had left at the daemon’s psyche, anchoring Cassian just long enough to pull him back.
It had nearly broken her.
Maybe it still would.
She floated now, caught in that limbo where pain was a dull memory and time didn’t matter.
But Cassian’s presence was still there. Not physically. Not even psychically. Just a weight. A signature. Guilt wrapped in silence.
It made her jaw tighten—metaphorically. If she’d had a working jaw.
Of course he’s blaming himself.
He always did.
Always thought he was the one carrying the weight. The only one who could make the hard calls.
And sometimes, he was right.
But not this time.
This time, he’d nearly lost himself. Not to power. Not to ambition. But to that old, festering wound he called survival. The same part of him that believed he had to win. That he was the only one who could.
That part was always the most dangerous.
She wasn’t angry because he failed. She was angry because she understood why.
And that understanding felt like swallowing glass.
But she wasn’t done. Not while he was still out there. Not while he was walking around thinking she was another casualty. Another scar on his conscience.
She pushed.
Against the silence. Against the pull downward.
Not to wake. But to stay. To hold the line.
Her body was broken, maybe. But her mind was still hers.
And when she woke—because she would—she’d have things to say.
---
Word Count: 2030
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Kratos5628
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