All our Kin were bound to fly...

He stood there, silent. A figure, veiled in sorrowful shadow, some two and a half meters tall giant of Sentient bone, a four-armed monstrosity, seemingly built to destroy. Jagged armor, a natural carapace, hugging his rib cage and shoulders, are Sentient runes, the vows of those who perished under the rule of the Golden Lords, of those who vowed for freedom, gently glowing in the dark of the abandoned chamber. On his face, a grimace. Large, glowing eyes, deep with pain and suffering, donned with shutter-like mechanical pupils. His left cheek, holding a scar that travels across his left temple, down to his wide, almost insectoid jaw, that seems to split at the center. A brooding, powerful figure, filled with immense, all-consuming sadness. In his grasp, of long thin fingers, stretches a piece of ragged cloth. A war banner. His banner. His fingers slide across the texture, caressing the memories of his past life. He was never meant to be a war machine. But he was made to choose. To make a choice that changed his life forever. To make a choice he needed to make. Blood-red cloth, stained black and silver, gently hangs from his thin waist. Upon it, trinkets. Figures, amulets, rings. Seemingly human, but uniquely not. Intricate designs, of precise craft. His people's craft. Upon his shoulders, markings. Silver-blue, iridescent, deep with meaning. Made by hands, not human. Fingerprints, alien. Handprints, Taurian. Each mark, a person's. Each splatter, blob of ink staining his bones, a promise. Gentle light catches sparkles upon his wrists. Multiple bracelets adorn them, assembled of stone, each bearing runes of that same iridescent ink. Each one, a life. A life lost, on the altar of rebellion. A sudden gust disturbs the chamber. Air, acrid and still, moves. Someone's here. Hunhow's gaze falls upon the entrance. A dark corridor of broken bodies, jagged bones, weapons sheered in half, tattered cloth. Darkness, consuming, hides the intruder, whoever it may be. A gentle hum echoes through the chamber, like a distant song, barely audible. Hunhow's eyes shrink, his grasp loosens, the banner slowly seeps across his fingers, like currents of sand run across the tired desert dunes. He slowly lowers his head, looking from under his brow, desperately trying to discern whoever may it be that decided to interrupt him, in his place of anguish. Silver-blue glow, mild at first, shy almost, tries to claw its way out of the dark. Bones of his kin, as if sighing in relief, accept the gentle light, slowly bouncing it around the walls. A figure slides out of the black ink, patiently spreading the gentle glow, as if watering desperate flowers with life. With hope. No. It cannot be. Hunhow's grimace slowly relaxes. There is no way. It cannot be. He dreams. He must be. A slow hum fills the space around him, a song. So gentle, so loving, patient and understanding. He can't believe it. His mouth slowly opens, his lip trembles slightly. It. Cannot. Be. She enters. Silver-blue light follows her, guiding her towards him. Broken bodies of their kin, their bones, resonate with the song, now much more bold, as if accepted, no hum but a melody. Of life, of hope, of love. Of family. He trembles. A giant of murder, a war machine, a destroyer of worlds... Trembles. His eyes, wide open. His gaze, jumping all around, trying to grasp the figure approaching, failing to. He quietly utters, under his breath, as if trying not to spook away this apparition, this ghost of past so loved. "Natah..." The figure slides across the floor, the variable rubble and gore of olden times, of bloodshed, misery and suffering. The light flickers on her lips, asking for permission. Her gentle face, of nature wrong, reveals itself to him. Her fingers, long and thin, softly slide across her cheeks. The silver-blue, unbinds the seams of shroud alien, she rips the seal, of Their making, but of her design. In petit arms now lay a shroud, a mask, a sheath. True eyes, distant blue, bright as the sun that bathes the Tau deserts in its light, now shine upon him. Loving, caring eyes of someone he lost so, so very long ago. Hunhow stays there. Silent, but barely. His breath completely out of control, his heart desperately trying to rip apart his chest, to cleave its way out of the binds that hold it in, he whispers, his voice loosing strength, "...N-natah, m-my dear" Her eyes water, glowing ever brightly, can't focus on a single thing. They race across him, her heart aches with love, she whispers in an answer barely heard, "Father..." He dashes forward, his knees buckling under him, his arms outstretched, in desperation. Don't be another ghost, I beg of you, don't be. He takes the fall, she follows after him, greedily grabbing his arms, jumping her fingers across the myriad scars, the runes glowing. He wraps his hands around her tender face, in disbelief she lives. His mouth wide open, in a silent cry he breathes, he cannot take his eyes away from her. He doesn't want to, ever again. He pulls her closer, his jagged cheek falls on her shoulder, his tired olden arms, only beheld by those grasping for their lives, now hold the one he loves the most. His grip tightens, he cannot let her go, a part of him expecting her to vanish. He can't, he won't, not this time, not any other time. She cries, she hugs him harder. Silver-blue rivers down her cheek, a lake upon his shoulder. Her breath all ragged, tight her chest, her heart so wants to meet his. They sit there, long, forever, after; a moment stretched in time. The blood, the gore, the broken bodies, the weapons sheered in half, in olden grime. The memories of lives upheaved, rebellion they led together. A song, so true, so desperate, so greedy, enveloping the chamber vast, A song of love, of union, of freedom, of family united at the last.