【战锤40k同人作品翻译】 Ennui 第一章：空虚 Empty

本章概述：

            一个魅魔无聊得要死（字面意）。

            In which a Succubus gets lethally bored.

正文：

 

空。

我有多久没感受过空虚了？

就如一只曾满载琼浆玉液，现在却仅存一丝几不可查的余香的细颈瓶。尽管其上浸染了发酵瓜果和香料的回忆，但它仍是空的。

我很空虚。

即便在此，在我的竞技场浸血的沙砾中央，我也没有任何感觉。曾几何时，数百万人横尸于此的腥臭气息，杂糅着他们受尽折磨的灵能残渣和枯竭灵魂回荡的哀嚎本会令人欣喜若狂。

至少，这本会些许触动我的灵魂。

现在它们只是纯粹的噪音和臭味——空洞无物，风味全无。

我又深呼吸了一次，空气中充斥着血腥味。

蒙难的瘴气充斥着恶名远播的钻心教派（Cult Cruciatrix）的剧院，支撑着我的同时令我作呕。这种感觉好似在嘴中塞满骨灰并缓慢咀嚼到只剩一团充盈着唾液的沙子再吞下，直到肚子几乎被产生的粪便撑破。

“伊莎莱（Isarae），为…为什么…，” 一个气若游丝的声音让我瞥向一边，我的教派里的一名巫灵居然仍在作垂死挣扎。

那双罩在同样残破的双手上的九头蛇护手（hydra gauntlets）在她试图接入其中的异次元武器以求杀死我时不住地抽搐。

“因为，艾丽西亚…，”我平淡地回应着，同时从我原先蹲伏的位置向她接近。我的剃刀连枷（razorflail）拖过沙地，嗡嗡作响地在尘土中穿行。

“因…为？”

“仅仅，因为，” 我跪在她身前，掐住她的下颌回应道。

她曾经很美，不过我其他的血腥新娘（bride）也是。

曾经是。

她的发色是如肿胀的伤痕般深沉、怒放的红，她的双眼像紫水晶碎片一样闪烁。她的肉体一如既往地惨白，但现在更多是因为她流失了身体中大部分的血液而非妆容。

艾丽西亚曾经一直是最强大的，她在被砍下双腿并被开膛破肚后还活着便证明了这点。就连血伶人的禁忌药物都没法让她在这种伤势下挺过来。

很快，饥渴女士也会带走艾丽西亚，一如祂已经在这充盈着惨叫的长夜里带走其他人。

我曾试想过摧毁自己的巫灵教派会稍稍搅动我的内心。我曾期待恶劣的背叛，愤怒的嘶吼，和茫茫多的熟面孔死于她们自己的统领魅魔（Succubus）的景象能多少填满那个古旧的细颈瓶。

好吧，在我移除Shae’lith执政官的脸皮前他的表情确实激起了最微小的一阵愉悦。我会在几天里回味这种感觉，运气好的话也许是几周。我仍把他的脸皮挂在腰带挂钩上，这能帮自己回想起来。

…在一夜间制造了上千死者后。

而我感觉像什么都没发生过似的。

“你…这该死的，”艾丽西亚嘶声道，“他们会…来找你的…。”

“欢迎他们来追杀我，”我冰冷地回应，“我欢迎饥渴女士的黑暗和永恒折磨，说不定我甚至能亲身体会呢。”

“疯…疯子，”艾丽西亚从她的双唇中挤出这句话。

她死期将至，而我抬起她的脸直到我们四目相对。她的眼中流露出恐惧，对欢愉王子的恐惧，对她的灵魂及其最终命运的恐惧。

我想要看到它，也许这次我能感受到什么。我亲自训练了艾丽西亚，多少个世纪以来我们在欲望、堕落、暴力的精妙舞步中共进。

也许我能在她被蚕食时感受到它。

她在像溺水的动物般喘息时她的眼睛倒映着我的五官。我欣赏着喷过我脸上的那精妙的动脉血柱，扇状的红色弧线完美地映衬着我苍白的肤色。

她渐渐枯萎着，我能从她玻璃状的眼睛看出这点，于是我拉近她，并把我的嘴唇贴上了她的。这种熟悉的味道和曲线，我已经品味过太多次，多到已经没有一点新鲜感了。

我把她抱在那个位置上，直至她的身体松弛下来，死亡的悲鸣声离她而去。

“真够无聊，”我嘟哝着丢开她无力的身体。“她的最后一口气跟其他任何时候的尝起来一个样。”

我环视这座剧院，思考着在下个半周期这里会如何爬满新执政官的梦魇和阴谋团成员。也许他们会给我一个新的巫灵教派，也许他们会杀了我以确保我不能在他们身上重演对前任做的事。

也许，也许，也许。

我跨过这个曾名为“艾丽西亚”的空壳走向自己的包厢，保持着缓慢而放松的步调，毕竟也不需要匆匆行事了。

我哪也不去。

一个出格的念头滑过包裹我内心的沉闷、结块的冷漠的泥浆壳。

哪里也不去。

也许，也许。

假使我想去某个地方呢？为什么要待在科摩罗？如果我远走高飞，他们会追逐我吗？

也许。

网道之外的银河是一连串的混乱与死亡，我也许能选择穿过一个受管制的传送门，去个真正可怖的地方。一个尚存理智的灵族人不带上一支舰队就不敢踏足以防被饥渴女士吞噬的，沉浸于战争的地方。

如果我能独自前往，那我也许会找到能激起我的事物。

“也许吧，”我低声念到。

一个熟悉的感觉流淌过我的内心。就像是…

期盼？

对，就是这个。

我打开通往自己的包厢的门并脱下了我的仪典盔甲。取而代之的是，我走向了装载着我真正的武备的架子，那是我被执政官召唤参战时所穿的。

深黑色的护手戴在我的手上，其色泽如同星辰间的虚空，并从指尖到手腕都覆盖着精心打造的边缘，其锋芒毕露恰如任何兵刃。同种颜色相同铸件的胫甲随之被轻易地绑到我的膝盖上，让我的腿裸露在外并活动自如。

一件被巧妙地切割，以露出大片的苍白血肉的胸甲随之被固定，并有几十片更小的刀片被沿着身侧和髋部钩在相应的位置上。

我用清水洗去头发上的血迹和沙土，那长发长着讨喜的橙色火焰的形态。我对自己的容貌颇感自豪，就像所有的黑暗灵族一样，哪有不具美感的死亡？哪有美的终局不是死亡？

一洗去我血腥的一夜，我便坐下来开始准备工作。

以精细的画笔，我在脸上以弯曲的笔画勾出纤细的深蓝色线条。较宽的笔刷在嘴唇上涂抹胭脂，而扁平的则为脸颊染上一抹色彩。

我已经很久都没有为自己做这件事了。自上一次我的一个奴隶使用这些小刷子和饰品起已经过去了很多年，可我依旧记得这种柔软的触感。

那是一个关于鲜血和哀嚎的故事的序章。

现在我的奴隶都死了，以及我的执政官、我的巫灵、我的教派、以及我的血伶人，以及这栋楼里的其他所有人，可我依旧感到空无一物。

对，现在是离开科摩罗去别处寻死的时候了。我不适合死在某个恼火的执政官和他的一群乱哄哄的梦魇的刀刃上。我会以另一种方式死去，某种可憎而悲惨，骇人而低贱的方式。

死在一片开阔地上，在被真正的战争的瘴气笼罩、五脏六腑痉挛时挺进战场，于命定的死亡面前一边咒骂一边毫无风度地挥动我的武器。

“对，”几十年来，真心实意的微笑第一次装点了我的面容。“对…我就该那样死去，那将是我演出的完美终点。”

在我的房间尽头的军械柜是我仅有的允许自己以示夸耀的几样物件之一。我的房间空荡荡的，以此提醒自己那些必须永远反对的东西。不过我的军械柜…嗯，它确实是件杰作。

我的手指轻轻一划，将蒙着面纱的金属拉到一边，用手指抚摸着我的无以计数的工具。

我停在了自己的九头蛇护手前，这是一些级别稍低于我的阴谋团成员的最爱，也是一件难以掌握其抽动的异空间材质的武器。在几个世纪前，当它不再能取悦我时便弃之不用。钩网（shardnet）依旧是我的一个古老的，过时的最爱。看着俘虏在其中扭动着把自己切成碎片直到要么失血过多要么学会保持不动仍是我珍藏的遥远记忆。

那么我最钟情的武器是…

剃刀连枷。

我拎起了这件貌似轻便的武器并轻柔地抱着它，欣赏着它宽大的、单纤连接的刀片，足以在像鞭子一样撕裂空气的同时把我周围的地面涂满内脏。这是一种画笔，一种需要一生的时间才能真正掌握的简单器具，而我已经花费了几生的时间以精进Lacerai的艺术。

如此多的战场已经被渲染成描绘废墟的油画。每次死亡，每只断肢，每一次动脉喷溅，都被算计着以在初次观看时最大化对感官的影响，我已经用自己的技术服务于科摩罗的强者们日趋衰退的愉悦感太久太久了。

在我日复一日地创作作品时，他们已经如饥似渴地凝视了太久，直到这成为了一件单纯的苦差事。

我将剃刀连枷系在腰间，将我的双子毒晶手枪收入枪套——它们是由阿斯杜巴尔·维克特本人在一次为他的阴谋团的尤为漫长的彻夜表演后赠予我的，然后我便离开了我的家，我的剧院，永远。

它已经完成了自己的使命。

原文：

Empty.

How long has it been since I have felt anything but empty?

Like an amphora that was once filled with the finest wine, now carrying only a faint, barely perceptible hint of a scent. The insides of the vessel are stained with the memory of fermented fruit and spices, but it is empty.

I am empty.

Even here, resting in the midst of the bloodsoaked sands of my arena, I feel nothing. Once upon a time, the gore-stink of the millions of deaths spent in this place, combined with the psychic residue of their torment and the echoing screams of their drained souls would have been something to exult in.

Or at least it would have moved my soul in some manner.

Now, they were simply noises and smells, empty of meaning and devoid of flavor.

I took another deep breath, the stink of blood rich in the air.

The miasma of agony filling the infamous theatre of the Cult Cruciatrix sustained me and disgusted me. It was like filling my mouth with ashes and slowly chewing until they were nothing more than a spit-filled paste of grit, and then swallowing until the resulting muck filled my stomach to bursting.

“Isarae, w-why…” a voice hissed, and I glanced to the side to see one of the hekatarii of my cult, surprisingly, still clinging to life.

Her ruined hydra gauntlets, clad on equally ruined hands, spasmed as she tried to engaged the extradimensional weaponry within to kill me.

“Because, Aelithya,” I replied neutrally as I stood from where I crouched and stalked over to her, my razorflail dragging along the sands, rasping through the dirt.

“Bec-cause…?”

“Simply, because,” I repeated, kneeling in front of her and seizing her by the jaw.

She was beautiful, all of my brides are beautiful, though.

Were beautiful.

Her hair is the deep, angry red of a raised welt, and her eyes glitter like amethyst shards. Her flesh is pale, it has always been pale, but now it has more to do with the fact that most of her blood has left her body than due to her cosmetic modifications.

Aelithya was always one of the strongest, something proven by the fact she survived having both of her legs sheared off and her torso opened up. Not even the narco-compounds of the haemunculi could preserve her through this much damage. 

Soon, She Who Thirsts would take Aelithya as well, just as They had taken the others in this long, scream-filled night.

I had thought that exterminating my own cult would stir something in me. I had hoped that the gross betrayal, the shrieks of outrage, the sight of so many familiar faces dying to their own Succubus, would at least fill some measure of that ancient amphora.

Well, the look on Archon Shae’lith’s face just before I removed it did evoke the smallest twinge of amusement. I would savor that sensation for days, perhaps weeks if I was lucky. The fact that I still had his face hung from my belt hooks would help me recall it.

Just under a thousand dead in a single night.

And I felt next to nothing.

“You… are… damned,” Aelithya hissed. “They will… come for you…”

“They are welcome to take me,” I replied dryly. “I welcome the blackness of Her hunger and the torment eternal, perhaps I will even feel it.”

“M-Madness,” Aelithya sputtered through wet lips.

She was dying, and I angled her face up until we were staring eye-to-eye. There was terror in her eyes, terror of the Prince of Excess, terror for her soul and its ultimate destination.

I wanted to see it, maybe this time I would feel something. I had trained Aelithya myself, and for centuries we had moved in a delicate dance of lust, depravity, and violence.

Perhaps I would feel it when she was devoured.

Her eyes reflected my features as she gasped like a drowning animal. I admired the artful, arterial spray that had crossed my face. My pale complexion highlighted by the perfect fanlike arc of red.

She was fading, I could see it in the glassiness of her eyes, so I pulled her close and pressed my lips to hers. It was a familiar taste and curve, one I’d tasted too many times for there to be any novelty to it.

I held her there until her body went slack, and her death rattle croaked out from her.

“How disappointing,” I muttered as I dropped her limp body to the ground. “Her final breath tasted the same as all of her other ones.”

I glanced around the theatre, considering how, in the next half-cycle, it would be crawlin with the new Archon’s incubi and kabalites. Perhaps they would offer me a new cult, perhaps they would kill me to ensure I did not do to them what I did to their predecessor.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Stepping over the empty vessel which had once owned the name ‘Aelithya’, I walked to my chambers. I kept my pace slow and languid, no need to rush after all.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

An errant thought slipped through the dull, caked, slurry of apathy that was coating my mind.

Not going anywhere.

Perhaps, perhaps.

What if I was going somewhere? Why stay on Commorragh? If I fled, would they pursue me?

Perhaps.

The galaxy beyond the webway was a panoply of chaos and death, I could choose a restricted portal to flee through and go somewhere truly horrible. A place soaked in war where no sane Aeldari would dare step foot without a full fleet at their backs for fear of being devoured by She Who Thirsts.

If I went there alone, I might find something to stir me.

“Perhaps,” I purred quietly.

A familiar sensation trickled through my mind. Something like…

Anticipation.

Yes, that’s it.

I cast open the doors to my chambers and doffed my ceremonial armor. Instead of that, I moved to the stands that held my true armaments, that which I wore when called to war by the Archon.

Gauntlets of deep black were fitted over my hands, their color like the emptiness between the stars, and covered from finger to wrist with cleverly fashioned edges that were as sharp as any blade. Greaves of the same shade and cast, went on next, strapped easily up to my knees and leaving my legs bare and free for movement. 

A cuirass, artfully cut and slashed to leave wide portions of pale flesh bare to bleed, was secured next, with scores of smaller blades hooked in place along my sides and hips.

I ran a fountain of clear water to wash the blood and grit from my hair, the long locks that were a delightful shade of orange flame. I took great pride in my appearance, as all Hekatarii do, for what is death without beauty? What beauty is there without the finality of death?

Once clean of my evening of blood, I sat to begin preparation. 

With delicate brushes, I drew lines of thin cerulean in curling calligraphic symbols across my face. Broader ones pressed rouge to my lips and flat ones gave a hint of color to my cheeks.

It had been so long since I’d done this for myself. So many years had passed since I’d had any but one of my slaves use these little brushes and cosmetics, and yet I still knew the soft motions. 

The teasing prologue to a dire narrative of blood and shrieking.

Now my slaves were dead, along with my Archon, my Wyches, my Hekatarii, and my Haemonculus, along with everyone else in the building, and still I feel nothing.

Yes, it is time to leave Commorragh, and seek my death elsewhere. It will not suit me to die on the blade of a spited Archon and his gaggle of Incubi. I will die in some other manner, something awful and wretched, something truly obscene and unworthy.

To die on an open field, surrounded by the stench of true war, gripping my entrails as I’m closed in upon, and screaming expletives while swinging my weapon in graceless spasms of defiance as my death approaches with inevitable tread.

“Yes,” a true smile graces my face for the first time in decades. “Yes… that is how I shall die, and it shall be a perfect end to my performance.”

My armory cabinet at the far end of my room is one of the lone pieces of ostentation I permitted myself. My quarters are dull and bare to remind me of what I must forever press against, but my armory… oh yes, that is a masterpiece.

A stroke of my finger pulls the veiled metal aside, and run my fingers along my myriad tools.

I paused at my hydra gauntlets, a favorite of some of my lesser Hekatarii, and a difficult weapon to master with its lashing, extraspatial material. I had outgrown their use centuries ago when their novelty ceased to amuse me. The shardnet was still an old, passing favorite of mine. Seeing captives writhe in its grip, cutting themselves to pieces until they either bleed out or learn to stay still remained a cherished, if distant, memory to me.

My favored weapon it would be, then.

The Razorflail.

I lifted the deceptively light weapon and cradled it, admiring the wide, monowire-linked blades that would rip and hiss through the air like a whip as they painted the field around me with viscera. It was a paintbrush of a sort, a simple tool that required a lifetime to truly master, and I had spent many lifetimes perfecting the art of the Lacerai.

So many battlefields had been rendered into canvasses of ruin, each death, each severed limb, each arterial spray, calculated just so to maximize the effect on the senses when viewed for the first time, and for too long I’ve employed my skills to the jaded delights of Commorragh’s mighty.

Too long they have stared hungrily as I painted them masterpieces night after night until it was naught but a chore.

I fastened the razorflail to my waist, holstered my twin splinter pistols which had been gifted to me by none other than Asdrubael Vect himself after a particularly long night of performance for his Kabal, and left my home, my theatre, for good.

It had served its purpose.