The Aftermath and the Aeldari

The dust still hung in the air over the ruined plains of Austeria Extremis. War machines lay in twisted wrecks, and the once deafening sounds of battle faded into silence. Franklin Valorian stood at the center of it all, his armor marked by deep gouges, yet his presence unyielding. He had done what few could—triumphed over a Chaos-corrupted version of himself. A victory like this would be etched into the annals of history.

As he surveyed the ravaged landscape, the familiar faces of his inner circle approached. Their steps, weary from the fierce struggle, carried with them the relief of survival and victory.

"Frank," came the steady voice of First Captain Denzel Washington, Valorian's closest friend and stalwart companion, as he reached out to clasp Franklin's arm in a warrior's grip. His armor was dented, and one of his legendary hyper-phase swords, Kusanagi-no-Tsurugi, still hummed faintly with residual energy. "I've seen you pull off some crazy stunts, but fighting yourself? That's a new level of narcissism, even for you."

Valorian chuckled, easing the tension that still clung to his muscles. "What can I say, Denzel? Chaos saw me and couldn't resist trying to get a piece of this."

Denzel's grin softened, replaced by something deeper. "All jokes aside, brother, today you did more than just win a battle. You faced yourself—your darkest version—and came out on top. Not many can claim that victory."

Before Valorian could respond, a booming laugh cut through the air.

"Father!" Second Captain Steven Armstrong's voice roared as his massive frame lumbered forward, muscles swollen from nanomachines still coursing through him as his mechsuit was in tatters . He clapped Valorian on the back with enough force to send most flying. "That was one hell of a show! You just showed those Warp bastards we don't need any gods. We make our own destiny!"

Franklin grinned, the fire of the moment still burning in him. "Damn straight, Armstrong. Liberty isn't given; it's taken. And today, we ripped it out of Chaos' hands."

Next, John Ezra, the cold and calculating head of Valorian's Secret Service, approached more cautiously. His demeanor was stoic, eyes sharp as they swept the battlefield for any lingering threats. His voice, as gravelly as ever, growled out a warning edged with satisfaction. "Primarch, today's victory sends a message. Chaos tried to turn you into a weapon against us. They failed."

Valorian's gaze met Ezra's, his tone as resolute as steel. "Every battle we fight, every corruption we resist, makes us stronger. And it's your vigilance, John, that keeps us standing on the right side."

Finally, Vladimir Mendelev, the Chief Librarian, stepped forward, the air around him crackling with residual psychic energy. His deep Russian accent was even thicker than usual, emotion carrying through his words.

"Comrade Primarch," Mendelev began, his voice rough yet reverent, "What you have done today... it is not normal. It is not possible. You defy Warp itself! You did not just defeat enemy—you spit in face of fate and wrote your own future."

Valorian clasped Mendelev's shoulder firmly, his own voice steady. "The future is not written, Vladimir. Chaos thinks we're all just pieces on their board, but we make our own moves. That's what they fear the most."

Mendelev's eyes gleamed with pride. "Da, my Lord. This is why they hate us. We are not puppets, like their pawns. We choose, we act. We are free, and they are slaves."

For a moment, they stood together—five warriors amidst the wreckage of one of the Imperium's most brutal conflicts, bound by a victory that transcended the battlefield.

As the group of commanders basked in their victory, Steven Armstrong's face suddenly turned grim. He placed a hand on Franklin's shoulder, his nanomachine-enhanced muscles tensing.

"Father, we've got a situation," Armstrong said, his voice low and urgent. "The Liberty Eagles and the Knight World of Austeria Extremis are holding the Aeldari forces at gunpoint. It's a powder keg out there, ready to blow at any moment."

Franklin's expression hardened, the jovial atmosphere evaporating instantly. "Details, Steven. What's our status?"

Armstrong smirked, a hint of pride in his voice. "We've successfully disabled their Webway gate. They're trapped here, but they're not going down without a fight. Some of our boys are saying the knife-ears have better psykers and tech than us, but I say that's a load of-"

"Is enough, Captain," Vladimir Mendelev interrupted, his thick Russian accent dripping with impatience. "I am appreciating your excitement, but let us not be making mistake of underestimating enemies." He turned to Franklin, his eyes glowing faintly with psychic energy. "My Lord, I have placed Techno-seers in best positions. We are ready to intercept, or how you say, smash any Aeldari psychic meddling."

Franklin nodded, processing the information quickly. "Good work, both of you. Let's move out. I want to see this for myself."

As they marched towards the standoff, the devastation of the recent battle was evident. Craters pockmarked the landscape, and the air still smelled of ozone and promethium. Franklin's mind, however, was elsewhere.

"So, old friend," he thought, addressing the entity within the Deathsword at his hip, "what's your take on this little predicament?"

The voice of Khaine, the Aeldari god of war, resonated in Franklin's mind. It was a sound like grinding metal, tinged with both ancient wisdom and barely contained violence.

"Ah, the children of Asuryan," Khaine's voice dripped with a mixture of fondness and disdain. "I still care for them, you know. They are my people, after all."

Franklin raised an eyebrow. "But?" he prompted, sensing there was more to come.

"But," Khaine continued, a hint of bitterness creeping into his tone, "they doomed themselves. Doomed me. Their pursuit of pleasure, their blood orgies, their excess... it birthed Slaanesh and shattered our pantheon."

As they walked, Franklin noticed the massive forms of Knight Walkers looming over the horizon, their weapons trained on a distant point. "So you wouldn't object if I decided to... eliminate this particular group?" he asked, curious about Khaine's response.

There was a pause, and Franklin could almost feel the god weighing his words. "I would not object," Khaine finally replied. "In fact, I would welcome it. Their souls would fuel me, strengthen our bond. It's an... alternative power source I've grown quite fond of, I must admit."

Franklin nodded, a grim smile playing on his lips. "Belief is overrated anyway, isn't it?"

"Indeed," Khaine agreed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "Though I must say, Franklin, our... friendship has changed me. In the past, I would have demanded their slaughter without hesitation. Now, I find myself considering... alternatives."

This caught Franklin's attention. "Oh? The mighty Khaine, considering diplomacy? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Don't get too excited," Khaine grumbled, but there was no real heat in his words. "I simply recognize that outright slaughter isn't always the most efficient path. Sometimes, a more... nuanced approach can yield better results."

As they continued their march, Franklin could see the standoff coming into view. The sight was impressive and terrifying in equal measure. Countless Astartes and Liberty Guardsmen had formed a tight perimeter around a group of Aeldari warriors. The sleek, alien forms of the Eldar contrasted sharply with the bulky, utilitarian designs of the Imperial forces.

Massive tanks and artillery pieces were positioned strategically, their barrels aimed squarely at the Aeldari contingent. The air was thick with tension, like a drawn bowstring ready to snap at any moment.

"Any last words of wisdom before I step into this mess?" Franklin asked Khaine, his hand resting on the hilt of the Crone Sword.

"Remember, Franklin," Khaine's voice was uncharacteristically soft, "power comes in many forms. The Aeldari know this better than most. Whether you choose to crush them or parley, do so from a position of strength. Show them the might of humanity, but also its potential for mercy. That... that is true power."

Franklin nodded, somewhat surprised by Khaine's counsel. "You really have changed, old friend."

"Perhaps," Khaine replied, a hint of his old ferocity returning. "Or perhaps I'm just learning to play a longer game. Either way, I look forward to seeing how you handle this, my bearer."

With that, Franklin squared his shoulders and strode forward, his presence immediately drawing the attention of both his forces and the Aeldari. As he approached, he could see the fear and defiance in the aliens' eyes, the tense postures of his own men, fingers hovering near triggers.

This was indeed a powder keg, as Armstrong had said. But now, armed with Khaine's unexpected wisdom and his own indomitable will, Franklin Valorian was ready to either defuse it... or control the explosion.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the moment. Then, with a voice that carried across the battlefield, he spoke: "Ath-nár-ishar, Aeldari. Isha's grace upon this meeting,"

----------------------------

Eldrad Ulthran, Farseer of Craftworld Ulthwé, stood at the forefront of the Aeldari contingent, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and emotions. The psychic energies that constantly swirled around him seemed agitated, reflecting his inner turmoil. His ancient eyes, which had witnessed the rise and fall of countless civilizations, were fixed upon the approaching figure of Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles.

How could I have been so wrong? Eldrad mused, his usually unshakeable confidence wavering. The visions that had led him and his forces to Austeria Extremis had been clear – a Primarch was to fall, a pivotal moment that could tip the balance of power in the galaxy. Yet what he had witnessed was something else entirely.

Instead of a fall, he had seen a battle – a Primarch fighting against a daemonic version of himself. It was a sight that defied his centuries of foresight and planning. The threads of fate have twisted in ways I could not foresee, he thought, his mind racing to understand the implications.

But it was the manner of the Primarch's fighting that truly caught Eldrad's attention. The fluidity of movement, the precise application of force, the seamless integration of psychic abilities into physical combat—it all spoke of Aeldari influence. Not just any Aeldari influence, but techniques and strategies that felt ancient, even to him. He fights like one of us, Eldrad realized, but with a savagery that is all his own.

The Farseer had not missed the psychic abilities the Primarch displayed during the battle. Spells and techniques unmistakably Aeldari in origin flowed from the human's hands—crude and unrefined in Eldrad's eyes, but undeniably effective. How has he learned our ways? Eldrad wondered. And who would dare teach a Mon-keigh our sacred arts?

As the Primarch drew closer, Eldrad's thoughts spanned millennia of Aeldari history. Flashes of the ancient Aeldari empire at its height surfaced—when war was a distant memory, and pleasure reigned supreme. But no, the sword forms didn't match that era of decadence and peace. His keen eyes focused on the Primarch's swordplay, analyzing every strike and parry. The style was undeniably Aeldari, yet something about it felt... different. It whispered of an age even older than the Fall, echoing the legends of Khaine's greatest champions.

His mind reached further back, beyond the formation of the empire, to a time when the Aeldari waged war on a galactic scale. To the War in Heaven itself.

Impossible, Eldrad thought, yet the evidence before his eyes was undeniable. The humans were not even a species when we fought the Necrontyr and their C'tan masters. How could this Primarch wield a fighting style from that era?

A chilling realization crept into his thoughts. Could it be? Does this Mon-keigh somehow wield techniques from the War in Heaven?

The idea seemed absurd. The War in Heaven was ancient even to the oldest Aeldari. It predated their empire and civilization. Humans hadn't yet emerged from the primordial chaos of their world.

It predates me, Eldrad realized, It predates us all.

As Eldrad surveyed the tactical situation, another shock awaited him.

The Webway gate. They've... disabled it.

The feat should have been impossible. The Webway was one of the Aeldari's most closely guarded secrets—a vast network of dimensional corridors perfected by the Old Ones over eons. For these mon-keigh, even ones as advanced as the Liberty Eagles, to interfere with its workings was unthinkable.

There are only two possibilities, Eldrad reasoned, his mind racing to unravel the mystery. Either they have studied the Webway for millennia, learning its secrets through sheer patience and ingenuity...

The alternative was almost too painful to consider.

Or there is a traitor among us. An Aeldari turncoat who has sold our most sacred knowledge to these humans.

Neither option was palatable, but Eldrad knew he had to uncover the truth. The security of the Webway was paramount, not just for Ulthwé, but for the survival of all Aeldari.

As Valorian approached, Eldrad found himself reassessing everything he thought he knew about these particular mon-keigh. The Liberty Eagles, despite their reputation as trigger-happy imperialists, were among the least xenophobic of the Astartes Legions. Their Primarch, in particular, possessed a curiosity about alien cultures that bordered on heresy by Imperial standards. After all, Valorian led the Independence Sector, one of the few zones the Aeldari considered safe enough to show themselves openly. In this sector, all that was required of them was to declare their intentions, after which they were merely escorted by a Sector Fleet, with no further hostilities.

"Ath-nár-ishar, Aeldari. Isha's grace upon this meeting," Valorian said in flawless Aeldari.

Eldrad's eyes widened behind his helm. The dialect was ancient, the cadence reminiscent of a time long before the Fall. Some of the phrases even hinted at linguistic structures that might have been used during the War in Heaven itself.

Impossible, Eldrad thought, his mind reeling. How does this Mon-keigh speak our tongue with such... antiquity?

The implications were staggering. This Primarch wasn't just a genetically engineered warrior; he was a living contradiction. A being that somehow bridged humanity's present and the Aeldari's distant past.

As Eldrad prepared to respond, he reevaluated everything about this encounter. The visions that had led him here, the battle he had witnessed, even the disabled Webway gate—all seemed insignificant in comparison to the enigma now standing before him.

This Franklin Valorian was more than just a potential ally or enemy. He was a puzzle Eldrad felt compelled to solve. A key not only to the future but to the galaxy's ancient past as well.

With the grace of millennia of diplomatic encounters, Eldrad stepped forward, his staff clicking against the war-torn ground. He knew that his next words could shape the fate of both their races.

"Ath-nár-vanyë, Primarch," Eldrad replied, matching the ancient dialect. "Your knowledge of our tongue is... unexpected. As is much about you, it seems."

Even as he spoke, Eldrad's mind raced. The Primarch's swordplay, his psychic techniques, and now his command of the ancient language—all pointed to a connection with the Aeldari that should have been impossible. And yet, here it was, undeniable.

Eldrad realized that the conversation ahead was crucial—not just for the immediate situation, but for unraveling the mystery of Franklin Valorian. A mystery that could have far-reaching consequences for both their races and the galaxy at large.

As he prepared for what would undoubtedly be one of the most intriguing diplomatic encounters of his long life, Eldrad felt a mixture of anticipation and trepidation. Whatever unfolded next would reshape his understanding of the Mon-keigh, of his own people's history, and perhaps the very nature of the galaxy itself.

A/N: Here's an Advanced Chapter I'm taking a break tomorrow.