“Awaken.”
The dreamless void of sleep was replaced by another darkness, that of a waking nightmare.
Fenic’s skin was clammy, so much so that his garments clung to sweat-soaked flesh like a cephalopod’s embrace. He blinked, then again, desperate for anything but the all-consuming blackness. “Hello?” The young man’s voice was a croaking rasp; how long had he been unconscious? “Is anyone there?”
There was no reply, but as Fenic's senses began their slow acclimation to the waking realm, new sensations began to cloy at what senses he still possessed; the musky aroma of incense, the taste of iron at the roof of his gums. The perspiration of his skin was icy cool, like a sprits of dew upon a sun-licked lawn. There were no manacles upon his wrist or ankles yet Fenic feared moving from his stillness, lest he be subsumed by the blackness entirely.
“Be not afraid,” The voice was syllabic and sweet, but sickeningly so, devoidof any true kindness. “It is a a waste of good fear.” ‘She’ chuckled, her voice a gentle reverb against the unseen walls.
Fenic swallowed and found his throat was bone dry, but the feeling of his Adam's apple bobbing was a welcome distraction, anything to remind him that he still existed. He clung to memory. He had to remember himself. He was Fenic, scribe-recorder to Inquisitor Aedith and loyal servant of the Imperium. Yes, that was right. Fenic closed his eyes, the rehearsed litanies of protection forming upon his lips before he could even recall them. They were a whimper compared the sonorous incantations recited endlessly upon Inquisitorial missions.
“Oh no, not that,” the voice tutted, “do not debase yourself with such ecclesiastical drivel. He is not listening.”
Ignoring the voice proved difficult, its echoing mockery a slow twist of the knife. Fenic's teeth ground against each other as he bit down, hoping the pain would distract him from the chiding, from the brewing doubt.
“Open your eyes, it won't hurt.” The voice pleaded, regaining its comforting quality.
With the air of a child, afraid to find the monster under his bed, Fenic's eyelids fluttered apart. Twin orbs, smoldering in the likeness of aged, mirrored suns, peered into the trembling initiate. Their false light was an esthetic glow, tendrils of vapor rising from each one like that of shattered neon filaments. Yet even the likeness of a devil, they were an enchanting pair; half-lidded, coy, and dare Fenic admit, seductive.
“See? Allow me to assist you.”
The wick was lit and shadow was born from light. Fenic squinted at first but found himself unable to look away from the creature before him: An astartes? The power-armored figure was certainly as large as a space marine, its armor a baroque arrangement of ichorous crimson plates, etched with great diagrams of esoteric runes and smoldering sigils. There was something terribly beautiful about strange and arcane script, seeming to rearrange themselves of their own volition. It had all the trappings of a fallen thrall to the dark powers.
Although this creature, the scribe realized, was something different. Fenic's eyes, cerulean rings that perfectly juxtaposed the creature’s burning glare, traveled upward until transfixing upon the astarte’s features. It was not the angular, masculine features of a transhuman soldier but rather the soft curves of a feminine, almost cherubic countenance. A silky mane ran along her gorget and settled along the apex of her breastplate; vermillion as the desecrated wargear she so donned.
A woman. It was a woman, or at least his Fenic's eyes deceived him.
Her lips curled into a coy smile, “Ah, there it is. Go on, you may stare, little one.”
“How?” He stumbled over the word.
“You are not so daft, Fenic Lehel, do not insult your intelligence or my assessment of it.” It was a playful chastising, a patronizing pat upon the head.
“You are a heretic, yes, but an astartes? The Emperor’s sons had no daughters. This must be a trick.” His brow furrowed, as much a gesture to show he was unafraid as a genuine curiosity.
The female warrior laughed, a soft, bell-like giggle, a strange apposition given her size. But as quickly as the smile came, it faded. “Change is the very nature of galaxy. I was once a man, yes, but I was once many other things as well. Perhaps it is easier for you to measure the world in dichotomies: Man and woman, right and wrong, good and evil. These notions are as ephemeral as the shifting tides of the empyrean, recycled analogues and fanciful lies. They are a prison, one we have both found ourselves in, yes, but one that I escaped long ago.”
Fenic frowned, the heretic's words were riddles and he was in no mood to entertain them. He was an apprentice scribe and record-keeper for the Inquisition. He served a higher purpose than these meandering, meaningless thoughts.
As if reading his mind, she spoke, her voice now a sibilant hiss, and not a whisper of a mother, but the hiss of a viper, a snake in the sacred garden, “Your kind never does seem to enjoy the truth, you would rather cling to dogma.” She sighed breathily, “But I suppose that is not your fault. We all cling to a dogma of some sort. I most certainly do.”
“Just kill me! Your words offer no substance, no self-proclaimed truth!” Fenic gathered his strength, his doom a forgone conclusion. That wasn’t not to say that the boy wasn’t scared. That his fear-stench did not tease the androgynous one’s senses.
“Mmm, yes, there it is again. This human trait of the noble death. The futile defiance, the refusal to bend the knee. The desire to spit in the eye of death itself. How very quaint. I find the notion, and your little display, adorable, if a bit trite and boring. And as I said, such a thing is a waste of your potential. Allow me to introduce myself adequately.” She smiled, revealing a perfect line of pearlescent teeth.
The astartes leaned in closer, her full lips parting just enough to reveal the tongue inside, its forked-end lashing the air playfully, almost tauntingly. Fenic was not certain, but it seemed her teeth had grown sharper, or at the least, her incisors more pronounced.
The boy watched her approach, her lips puckered in a mocking facsimile of a kiss. When she drew near, Fenic was struck with the scent of her breath, like a sweet wine mixed with the tang of fresh blood. “I am Dionysia of the Word Bearers.”
The scribe's eyes grew wide. The Word Bearers. The name struck terror into the hearts of Imperial citizens and those who lived beyond its borders alike. The XVII Legion, the traitors, and their progenitor, Lorgar Aurelian, had reaped an untold harvest over the millennia. Theirs was the gospel and the way, zealots in light and then in dark. To cross them was to know their creed and it was pain, death and the desecration of all things. Dionysia was a Word Bearer, an ancient, an apostate, an enemy of mankind. The realization elicited a shuddering tremble from the captured scribe.
The androgynous creature smiled, as if the revelation of her identity brought her a perverse delight. Her mouth opened again, the forked-end of her tongue licking the air. The stiletto-point of her incisors had grown into sharp, curved fangs. Her tongue lashed the air, tasting it; a collection of silvery studs lined its length in a twinkling constellation. She smiled and leaned back, and with a sudden jerk, pulled Fenic forward. The impact had been less of a collision and more of an embrace, a token of the Dionysia’s genehanced strength and her command of it. Her armor was cool to the touch, thrumming with the mechanical hum of its power and the eldritch energies that imbued it. There was an exhilaration to the act that left Fenic cursing himself. She could do with him as she pleased and he was a mere kitten dangling by its scruff.
And then he felt it, the warmth and wetness of her lips against his neck. It was a gentle touch, but not an act of affection. The gentle touch of a predator about to feed, knowing its prey could not resist. Dionysia inhaled deeply, savoring the boy's terror, the scent of his fear, before opening her mouth fully.
The bite was not a quick puncture but a slow penetration, the two sharp points sliding past skin until her incisors broke the delicate tissue beneath. Fenic groaned and squirmed in her grip. It had not been nearly as painful as he'd expected, a nibbled compared to the damage Dionysia could have inflicted.
Barely a man, Fenic seemed even smaller upon Dionysia’s lap. He was a plaything, really. He had grown used to the role of submissive under the unerring eye of his previous mistress, Inquisitor Aedith, but theirs had been a relationship of professionalism and duty. She had befriended him at times, yes, but there was always a cold dispassion about the Inquisitor that failed to provide the warmth of a generous teacher.
His body betrayed him as the fangs retracted from his nape, and Dionysia lapped the wound. His body shivered, and a warmth flooded through his loins, a sensation akin to a pleasant, buzzing drunk. The Word Bearer laughed, a gentle, throaty chuckle. “I didn’t take too much, Fenic, you will live.” He found himself involuntarily pressed against her armored bosom, cursing the damnable cold that seemed to arise beyond her grip.
She kissed the side of his face, leaving a bloody smear along his cheek, and then licked the red droplet clean. A massive, gauntleted hand massaged at his scalp with unbefitting dexterity, gently rustling the blonde mop of wet hair. Fenic could not help himself, despite the obvious danger, the warmth of her body, and her tender caresses, were a drug unto themselves.
“You were but a recorder, weren’t you, Fenic?” Dionysia smiled, the bloody fangs now a stark white once more, her lips a ruby gloss.
He swallowed and nodded, unsure where this was heading.
Dionysia grinned, “So you know what it means to bear the word. To witness. To know; that is pleasing.”
Fenic found himself blushing, not out of shame but an odd sense of pride.
Her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed in a mock pout, as if disappointed by his silence.
The young man swallowed and managed to find his voice, his eyes unable to look away from hers, their radiant red glow entrancing, hypnotic. His own words seemed to come from a distance, a third person, the sound of his voice, foreign. “Yes.”
Dionysia smiled and leaned in, her nose grazing the young man's face. "Go on."
"I am a scribe. I witness, I record, I remember, I serve." His heart raced and he wondered if the traitor could hear the drum-like beating; of course she could.
“Then allow me to feed your mind and sate your curiosity. You are no apostle, no choir child of an Ecclesiarch, but do you know of eucharist?” Her lips were parted, a thin thread of blood-saliva hanging between them, her tongue lashing the air like a serpent's.
He was transfixed by the sight, as if his own will was not his own, the boy found himself nodding, his mind wandering.
"The word, it is a sacrament. A messiah gives their flesh and blood for the salvation of their flock. In turn, the congregation eats of their god, and the cycle is completed. We are a cycle, a never-ending one, unbound to a fool’s notions of duality."
He nodded again, a bit more eagerly.
“We, you and I, are no longer bound by the limitations of our past. Do you see how laughable a notion of sex is in the face of immutable change? How ignorance has instilled fear in your heart?”
The Word Bearer's hands moved lower, the massive gauntlets stroking Fenic's chest and abdomen, the ceramite-clad digits exploring his physique.
“Dionysia—“
“Mistress or master, if you please.” She interjected with a smile, her eyes narrowing, and a single, crimson brow raising in the likeness of a schoolteacher, correcting a child.
He nodded and swallowed again, his mouth was parched. Her fingers were upon his waistband, the cold metal threatening to expose him. “Mistress.”
Fenic gasped, reminded of his shame, of his weakness, but what was there to be done? The Word Bearer would take what she wanted, he was not a fool. He was no warrior, no space marine, his body was frail, weak, and his mind no match for the androgynous monster's own. Perhaps if he submitted, he would not be harmed. He could play along.
"Good boy. It is time for you to partake in your own communion.” She whispered, her fingers pulling down the last bit of cloth that covered him. He was exposed.
Fenic felt his body shiver, the chill of the air a cruel contrast to the Word Bearer's heat. Her body radiated warmth, a furnace that would make the most stalwart astartes jealous. Her fingers were like iron, the metal warmed from their contact with his own body.
"Down, and kneel.” She nodded to the floor, drawing Fenic’s attention to the now-writhing shadows below them.
He followed her gaze, the room below, a dark abyssal pool, was now aglow, a sickly green light illuminating its confines.
Dionysia withdrew her hands and stood, Fenic slipping from her grasp like a ragdoll. He hit the ground, the stone a hard impact upon his bare knees. Dionysia remained seated on what only be described as a throne of dubious design, unnatural appendages sprouting from its armrests. The throne seemed to move and undulate with an unnatural life, its black, metallic surface a liquid in itself.
Unlike the forge-world spec armaments of loyalist astartes, Dionysia’s plate was a composite of ceramite armor and religious vestments; a scroll of fabric, similarly inscribed with black-tongued runes, sprawled across the length of her lap and to the ridge of her shins.
Dionysia's eyes seemed to grow brighter, as if a flame had been stoked within, their radiance growing stronger. With a flourish, she spread her legs, revealing a godless mockery of the male sex. It was large enough to have pleased a beast and most certainly have belonged to one. A profane tool, not molded by the calculating e measure of evolution but the depraved craftsmanship of a Slaaneshi whore.
A thick, throbbing shaft of pinkish-purple flesh extended upwards, its phallic nature unmistakable. Yet its coloration and texture, not to mention its unnatural proportions, were more akin to the vile organs of a Tyranid bioform. “While it might not seem it, you still have a choice, Fenic. There is no pride in taking you, no joy in stealing what may be offered freely. You may resist if you like and suffer the same fate as your companions.”
His companions?
“Do not think long on them, only know that this sacrament — this eucharist — should be taken of your own volition.” Dionysia offered him an encouraging nod, her lips curling into a coy grin.
Fenic could feel the heat from her member, the head was swollen and the shaft throbbed with a steady pulse. The tip glistened, an ooze of precum already beginning to gather at its slit. His mind was racing, his heart a thundering drum, the sweat upon his back and brow a frigid ice. There was a terror in his mind, the very idea of being taken by a woman was anathema to him, but what then was this…this…thing?
Fenic stared into Dionysia's eyes, her face an unreadable mask. She seemed to be waiting, the anticipation palpable. Was this a test? Or was the androgynous creature truly offering a choice. The young man licked his lips, the taste of sweat and salt was on them. His body ached and his knees were sore.
Dionysia watched the boy closely, his inner conflict playing itself out like a symphony. The taste of his terror was exquisite, his fear a sweet, heady bouquet that she would never tire of. He was a small thing, a frail and delicate human, one who had yet to experience the world and all it had to offer. But his mind, his mind was open, his imagination an untapped well of possibilities, just waiting to be molded.