When a God loses it's Patience

The silence of Khaine's shrine wrapped around Maugan Ra like a familiar cloak as he performed his duties. Not yet the Phoenix Lord he would become, but already bearing the weight of leadership as Head of the Dark Reapers Aspect Shrine, he moved through the ancient rituals with practiced precision. The great hall of Craftworld Altansar echoed with the distant sounds of training – Exarchs teaching young Aspect Warriors the ancient paths of war.

Outside, he knew, daemons clawed at their reality. The Webway gate stood sealed, a temporary barrier against the horrors that sought entry. But here, within the shrine, time seemed to flow differently, each moment stretched into contemplation of bloodshed and battle.

The air changed.

The shrine's eternal flames, usually burning with controlled intensity, suddenly roared to life. The ancient walls themselves seemed to pulse with energy, and the drums of war – drums that had been silent for millennia – began to beat with a rhythm that spoke of coming bloodshed. Each beat resonated with something primal, something that spoke to the warrior soul within every Aeldari.

Maugan Ra's hands stilled in their ritual movements. His mind flashed back to the Harlequins' performance days earlier – their dance of prophecy that had left the Craftworld's leadership in turmoil. Their words echoed in his memory with newfound urgency:

"The threads of fate weave strange patterns,

Where human strength and Aeldari art combine.

The Hand of Khaine rises anew, Neither fully god nor fully man,

But perhaps, precisely what both require."

The second verse had seemed even more specific:

"Through the crucible of stars,

Wings of molten light shall soar.

What was scattered shall be gathered,

When Liberty's son bears Murder's sword.

The Eagle of Five Wounds shall rise,

Where even gods fear to tread.

The Hand of Khaine returns at last,

To wake the god from sleeping death."

The prophecy had already caused significant discord within Altansar. Below, he could see the division physically manifested - Farseers gathered in one section of the training grounds, their disapproval evident in their rigid postures, while the Exarchs continued their training with increased intensity, energized by the prophecy's implications.

The Farseers saw it as heresy - how dare a Monkeigh be chosen as the champion of Khaine? It went against everything they believed about their gods, about the separation between their species. Their arguments were full of historical precedent and cultural tradition, speaking of the sanctity of Aeldari gods and the impossibility of human comprehension of their divine aspects.

The Exarchs, however, saw only the potential for glorious warfare. To them, the hand that wielded Khaine's power mattered less than the blood that would be spilled in his name. They recognized something in the prophecy that the Farseers seemed to miss - a chance for renewal, for awakening something that had long slumbered in their race's warrior heart.

As the shrine's fires cast his shadow long across the floor, Maugan Ra found his own thoughts crystallizing. The siege outside their walls was only the beginning - he had seen enough of fate's weaving to know that Altansar faced a darker future still. If this Hand of Khaine, this human champion, could prevent the damnation he occasionally glimpsed in his dreams, then what did it matter that he wasn't Aeldari?

The drums of Khaine beat louder, and Maugan Ra felt something shift in the air - a presence approaching, powerful enough to make the wraithbone sing. The flames of the shrine writhed and formed shapes: wings of metal and fire, an eagle's cry in the language of war, a sword that sang with the voice of a god.

"So," Maugan Ra whispered to the empty shrine, his voice mixing with the drumbeats, "the Hand of Khaine comes at last." He adjusted his grip on his weapon, not out of threat but readiness. Whatever was about to step through that portal would change everything - for Altansar, for the Aeldari, perhaps for all of creation.

And Maugan Ra, not yet the Phoenix Lord but already wise in the ways of fate, knew that sometimes salvation came in forms that tradition never predicted. The drums of Khaine spoke of war, yes, but also of change - and change, however uncomfortable, was sometimes the only path to survival.

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

The daemon-infested corridors of the Webway echoed with the sounds of battle and destruction, though "battle" might have been too generous a term for what was happening. Franklin Valorian moved like a force of nature, each swing of the Wailing Doom leaving trails of fire in its wake. Where he passed, daemons simply ceased to exist, returning to the warp in screaming fountains of dissipating energy.

Henry Cavill, for all his enhanced transhuman abilities, could barely track his gene-father's movements. The Primarch was a blur of metal wings and burning light, leaving only fiery contrails to mark his path. As he watched this display of martial prowess, a question nagged at the back of Henry's mind: How had such a being fallen to Horus? The historical records spoke of an epic duel aboard the Vengeful Spirit, but seeing Franklin in action made such an outcome seem impossible.

"There's our exit," Khaine's voice resonated in Franklin's mind as they spotted the daemon-besieged portal. "Though perhaps we could approach with a bit more tact-"

"TACTICAL SOLUTION INCOMING!" Franklin declared mentally, channeling power into the Wailing Doom. The sword flared with divine energy, its edge burning with the fury of a dying sun.

"That's not what I-"

The slash that followed could have split a Titan in half, carving through the daemon horde like a hot knife through particularly unfortunate butter. Franklin's wings spread wide as he charged forward, Henry in tow.

"OH YEAH!" Franklin burst through the weakened portal with all the subtlety of the Kool-Aid Man, trailing fire and destruction.

"Did... did you just quote an ancient beverage mascot while wielding a god-weapon?" Khaine's mental tone carried the weight of eons of exasperation.

"Tradition is important," Franklin replied cheerfully, already charging up another blast. "Speaking of which..."

The Wailing Doom erupted again, sending a wave of purifying fire back through the portal they'd just entered, incinerating any daemons trying to follow. The psychic shockwave rattled the very structure of the Webway around them.

"So, quick question - how do we seal this thing?" Franklin asked, examining the damaged portal. "You know, before more uninvited guests show up?"

There was a moment of profound silence in Franklin's mind.

"Did you... did you not remember the sealing runes I taught you?" Khaine's voice carried a dangerous edge.

"You taught me combat runes! Lots and lots of combat runes. Runes for explosions, runes for fire, runes for making things very dead very quickly..." Franklin counted off mentally. "Don't recall any about sealing portals."

"I absolutely taught you protective runes."

"Nope, pretty sure you got excited about all the combat applications and forgot the boring defensive stuff."

"I did not-" Khaine paused, mentally reviewing their previous training sessions. "I... may have gotten slightly carried away with the offensive capabilities."

"HA! Called it!" Franklin's mental voice was triumphant. "The god of war forgot to teach defense!"

"Your mind must have slipped during that lesson," Khaine attempted to recover dignity. "I distinctly recall mentioning protective runes at some point..."

"Bullshit!" Franklin's mental laugh echoed. "You got so excited about teaching me how to make things explode that you completely forgot about the practical stuff!"

"I am an ancient god of war and murder, I do not 'forget' things," Khaine insisted, though there was a distinct lack of conviction in his tone. "But perhaps we should focus on the current situation?"

"Oh no, we're definitely coming back to this later. This is going in the 'Times I Was Right and Khaine Was Wrong' collection. It's a growing anthology."

"Focus, you impossible human!" Khaine's mental voice carried both irritation and, though he'd never admit it, a hint of amusement. "The runes are as follows..."

The god-shard began teaching Franklin the proper sealing runes, his instructions precise and detailed - perhaps a bit more detailed than strictly necessary, as if to compensate for the earlier oversight.

"You're totally embarrassed about forgetting this, aren't you?" Franklin thought as he traced the runes in the air.

"I am the god of war and murder. I do not get embarrassed."

"Your divine grumpiness says otherwise."

"Just draw the runes correctly. And stop grinning like that - it's unbecoming of one wielding a god-weapon."

"Can't help it. This is going to be such a great story later."

"You will tell no one of this."

"Oh, I'm telling everyone. 'The day Khaine forgot basic defense' - it'll be a hit at parties."

"I will flood your dreams with endless combat drills."

"Worth it!"

As Henry watched, his father seemed to be having an animated conversation with thin air while drawing complex runes around the portal. The Primarch's expressions shifted from focused concentration to barely suppressed laughter and back again, all while perfectly executing what appeared to be ancient Aeldari runes.

The portal sealed with a final flash of energy, and Franklin gave the sword at his hip a friendly pat.

"See? All sealed up, nice and proper. Though if you'd remembered to teach me this earlier..."

"We are never speaking of this again."

"Oh, we are absolutely speaking of this again. Repeatedly. At length. Possibly with diagrams."

The sword pulsed with what could only be described as divine annoyance, and Franklin's laughter echoed through the Webway corridors.

The relative peace of Craftworld Altansar shattered as Franklin Valorian burst through the Webway gate in a display of fire and barely contained destruction. His wings left trails of molten light in the air, each movement accompanied by echoes of ancient war drums. Henry stood at ready, his transhuman senses alert to the growing crowd of Aeldari surrounding them while his father worked on the damaged portal.

The effect on the Craftworld's inhabitants was immediate and profound.

The Farseers, who moments ago had been debating the heresy of a Monkeigh wielding their god's power, found themselves overwhelmed by an assault of divine presence. Khaine's psychic might crashed through their carefully maintained mental barriers like a tidal wave of blood and fire. Visions forced themselves into their minds: ancient battlefields stretching across stars, the clash of godly weapons that could shatter worlds, and through it all, the unmistakable signature of their god of war and murder, somehow intertwined with this impossible human.

Their usual composure cracked as they staggered under the psychic onslaught. Several clutched their heads, their witch-sight burning with the intensity of what they witnessed. The presence of Khaine was undeniable, his essence woven so thoroughly with the Primarch that it was impossible to tell where god ended and demigod began.

The Aspect Warriors showed why they were considered the elite of their kind. Despite the call of battle singing in their blood, despite every warrior aspect of their being crying out to answer Khaine's presence, they maintained their discipline. Their movements were precise as they formed a perfect circle around Franklin and Henry, weapons held at ready positions - not quite threatening, but prepared for any possibility.

Other Aeldari were not so fortunate. The Warhost and Young warriors in training fell to their knees, overwhelmed by visions of glorious combat. Artisans dropped their tools as their hands itched for weapons. The very wraithbone of the Craftworld seemed to resonate with Khaine's presence, ancient war-songs echoing through its crystalline structure.

Maugan Ra stood apart, but ready as he observed the scene. "Wings of molten light," he murmured, watching Franklin's casual display of power as he traced sealing runes in the air. "Neither fully man nor god." The prophecy was taking shape before his eyes, more literal than even he had imagined.

The Shrine of Khaine behind him continued to blaze, its fires forming shapes that mirrored Franklin's movements. Each rune the Primarch traced to seal the portal was echoed in flames within the shrine, ancient knowledge flowing both ways between god and champion.

Henry maintained his guard stance, his enhanced senses picking up every subtle movement of the Aeldari warriors surrounding them. His training told him they were in a potentially hostile situation, but something else - perhaps the same gene-crafted instincts that recognized Franklin as his gene-father - suggested this was more complex than simple threat assessment.

Franklin, for his part, seemed entirely unconcerned with the growing tension around him. His focus remained on the portal, fingers tracing complex patterns in the air as he sealed the breach. Each movement was precise, despite the casual grin on his face suggesting he was having yet another internal conversation with his divine passenger.

Maugan Ra took a step forward, his movement causing ripples of tension through the gathered Aeldari. "The Hand of Khaine returns at last," he spoke, "to wake the god from sleeping death." His words carried across the chamber, acknowledgment and challenge both.

The gathered Aeldari watched, weapons ready but held in check, as their prophecy took flesh before them. The human demigod who wielded their god's power with casual ease, the transhuman warrior who stood guard with inhuman stillness, the blazing wings that spoke of both human innovation and divine power - it was everything the Harlequins had foretold, yet nothing like what any had truly expected.

Franklin finished the last sealing rune just as Henry's warning reached his ears. Turning around, he found himself and his son surrounded by an impressive array of Aeldari weaponry, all pointed directly at them.

"Shit," Franklin muttered under his breath.

"Gee," Khaine's sardonic voice echoed in his mind, "whoever would have thought that by going through a Webway gate, we'd find ourselves in an Aeldari Craftworld? Who could have possibly predicted this? Oh wait..."

"Not helping," Franklin thought back through gritted teeth.

A tall figure stepped forward from the assembled Aeldari, his armor adorned with symbols of death and more ornate armor than the rest. "I am Maugan Ra, Head of the Dark Reapers Aspect Shrine," he announced in flawless Ancient Aeldar. He gestured to the elaborately robed figures to his left, "The Seer Council of Altansar," then to the martial figure on his right, "and Autarch Ilrathan. We welcome you, Hand of Khaine, though your arrival is... rather more dramatic than anticipated."

Franklin's mental conversation screeched to a halt. "Hand of what now?" he thought at Khaine. "Where did you keep your hand? Is there something you're not telling me about our arrangement here?"

"This has Cegorach's fingerprints all over it," Khaine grumbled. " Still... this could work to our advantage."

Taking his cue from the god-shard, Franklin straightened to his full height, wings spreading magnificently. "I am Franklin Valorian, Primarch of the Liberty Eagles, and this is my son, Captain Henry Cavill." He gestured to the still-combat-ready Space Marine. "Though I must admit, this 'Hand of Khaine' business is news to me."

Maugan Ra began explaining the prophecy, his melodic voice carrying across the chamber as he recited the Harlequins' words. However, before he could finish, one of the Farseers stepped forward, his elaborate robes swirling with barely contained psychic energy.

"How are we to believe this mon-keigh is truly chosen by Khaine?" he demanded, seemingly having already forgotten the psychic assault he'd experienced moments ago. "Even if he wields some fragment of our god's power, that hardly makes him-"

"Oh, for the love of Asuryan- Franklin?" Khaine's voice carried a note of divine irritation.

"Yeah?"

" I'll borrow a significant portion of your power for a moment, These children need a reminder of who they're dealing with."

Franklin's mental grin was audible. "Go for it."

The transformation that followed would be spoken of in Altansar's histories for millennia to come. Franklin's blazing form suddenly dimmed as his mechsuit returned to its normal state, but that was merely the prelude. The fires from Khaine's shrine erupted outward, coalescing behind Franklin in a towering inferno that reached toward the craftworld's artificial sky.

The war drums that had been beating since Franklin's arrival became a deafening crescendo. The very wraithbone of the craftworld sang with divine power as a figure emerged from the flames - a giant wreathed in fire and fury, so massive it made even the towering Wraithlords look like children's toys in comparison.

This was no Avatar, no mere vessel of divine power. This was Khaine himself, the Aeldari God of War and Murder in all his terrible glory. His armor was forged from the death of stars, his sword blazed with the fires that had birthed the universe, and his presence was so overwhelming that several of the younger Aeldari fell to their knees, blood trickling from their eyes and ears.

The doubting Farseer had just enough time to register his mistake before Khaine's hand swept down, divine power searing through his carefully constructed mental defenses like tissue paper. He collapsed, his mind overwhelmed by visions of every battle ever fought, every death dealt in Khaine's name, every drop of blood spilled in the name of war since the first being raised a weapon against another.

The god's voice thundered through the Craftworld, each word carrying the weight of ancient battles: "ARE THERE ANY OTHER QUESTIONS ABOUT MY CHOICE OF CHAMPION?"

The silence that followed was profound. Even the Aspect Warriors, trained to maintain discipline in the face of any threat, found themselves kneeling before the manifest presence of their god. Maugan Ra alone remained standing, though he too bowed his head in recognition of Khaine's power.

Franklin, still standing at the god's feet, couldn't resist adding, "I think that's a 'no' on the questions."

"That should make diplomacy easier without the naysayyers" Khaine's voice had returned to its normal volume in Franklin's head as the massive manifestation began to fade, divine power flowing back into the Primarch.

"Thanks," Franklin agreed cheerfully as his blazing form returned. "But you have to admit, their faces were priceless."

"I am an ancient god of war and murder. I do not admit to finding anything 'priceless.'"

"The giant flaming manifestation suggests otherwise."

"That was a necessary demonstration of divine authority."

"It was showing off and you know it."

"...perhaps a little."

As the flames subsided and Franklin's power returned to normal, the assembled Aeldari remained kneeling, their earlier skepticism thoroughly crushed under the weight of divine demonstration. Maugan Ra stepped forward once again, this time with a decidedly more respectful tone.

"Perhaps," he suggested diplomatically, "we should discuss why the Hand of Khaine and his son have honored Craftworld Altansar with their presence?"

Henry, who had maintained his guard position throughout the entire display, finally allowed himself to relax slightly. He'd read historical accounts of his father's ability to turn tense situations around, but nothing had prepared him for watching his Primarch casually banter with a manifested god while surrounded by potentially hostile Aeldari.

Franklin grinned, his wings settling into a more relaxed position. "Well, funny story about that..."