Aquila

[LinnScarlett]

On a rainy blue monday, somewhere last autumn, I was in a terrifically melancholic and wistful mood, which resulted in writing this piece. It's a short story. It's finished. I can't say much about it, for its strength lays in its mystery.

Oh - heads up: potential heresy.






The land was barren, parched under the unforgiving rays of the eternal sun high up and motionless in the orange sky; a great, angry orb of fire that scorched the earth with its merciless heat. There was neither verdure nor shade here: the red, rocky landscape stretched as far as the eye could see. The mountains bordering the sea beyond the horizon promised shade and water that never grew closer, shimmering in the heat like a mirage. A harsh wind blew over the empty land, hot and dry like the lifeless earth it stirred.
             He walked across the barren land slowly, in no one direction and with no particular purpose. His hands rested clasped behind his back, his head lightly bowed as if lost in deep thought. His sandal-clad feet left but the barest of traces on the cracked earth, dust stirring as he passed. The sun flung its rays at his wide, exposed chest and broad shoulders with unrelenting fury, flushing the bronzed skin an angry red. The desert wind tugged at his waist robes and the long, leather-strung loincloth he wore over it, throwing them around his strong legs despite their heavy red cloth and gilded decorations. Sand flew in the trashing garment's wake and the wind whipped the biting grains across his exposed skin and up into his regal visage. The unrelenting gales grasped at his long, seal black hair and tangled the light, faintly curling strands into terrible knots; the thin, golden laurels encircling his chiselled brow powerless to keep them from being tossed about. Yet neither the dust stinging his eyes nor the heat burning his skin disturbed him. He simply walked, always onward; oblivious to the sand, the wind, the heat and the pain, a light frown ever creasing his proud brow. Until his frown suddenly deepened, and he halted abruptly.
             The sounds came to him swiftest. They were echoes at first, fleeting and thin, but rapidly nearing, quickly becoming louder and clearer. There was the clang and scratch of metal upon metal, the hiss of ceaseless pneumatics and the endless whirr of uncounted servos, all churning away in a never-ending mechanical cacophony. There was also the ring of fitted boots upon stone resounding through a vast space, the rush of cloth robes as their wearers hurried across the great expanse and the soft, indistinct but carrying whispers of hushed voices from all around. Yet it had been none of these noises that had attracted his consciousness, for these were the familiar sounds inherent to his sanctuary. No, it had been a curious, softer sound, all but lost amid the others: the light thud of fleet little steps across marble, replaced by soft clings as they struck gold.
             Tactile sense returned to him more gradually, in broad outlines before details became more distinct. There was the cold, hard embrace of solid metal underneath him and against his back; the soft texture of the heavy velvet cloth about his waist; the cold air of the open space around him. His fingertips brushed past the scrollwork underneath his palms, the intricate designs as intimately familiar to him as his own body. His feet chafed against the course leather wrappings of his sandals, the lingering sting a welcome reprieve. He felt the weight of the gold encircling his proud brow, its touch cool to his forehead. And, deep within, the slow, he felt the steady beat of his own heart. It was only then that he noticed it, the gentlest of touches. It was the feather light brush of slender fingertips across the instep of his left foot. Slowly he raised his head and opened his eyes.
             The cavernous hall around him was of a vastness beyond comprehension, its ancient gothic arches extending beyond even his sight into the distance. Hundreds of thousands of miniscule robed figures, small as ants from his high vantage point, scurried across the expanse below as they went about their duties. He could see them all from where he sat. He could see them all and their doing, knew them all better than they did themselves at once.
             She sat kneeling at his feet, one of her small hands lightly resting across his left foot. Her form was slender, her stature delicate. Fragile, almost. She possessed a curtain of long, light locks that shrouded her visage and sheened a gentle gold in the harsh, artificial light. Her skin was a soft, rosey porcelain whose flawless perfection rivalled the smooth marble she kneeled upon. She was from Terra, he could tell. She was from the very same red plains as he had once walked upon, been birthed to, so many thousands of generations ago. It filled him with a momentary sadness, and wistful longing, too. Those days were long gone, and nothing but painful memories across the ruins of a shattered dream. He sighed, resigned in her fate. Such a fragile, irreplaceable young thing; so carelessly squandered.
             Slowly he rose from his splendorous seat, his gaze upon her still. Only once he stood, did she shift. Quietly she rose beside him, her gaze never lifting as they descended the marble steps side by side. The Custodians, his wardens and jailers both, lined their path but gave no sign of their passing. Though hundreds of steps comprised the rise to his magnificent throne, their descent seemed to take but a moment and the next they strolled across the vast expanse of his inner sanctum. As they walked he brought up his hand, and when she took it their surroundings started to change as his fingers gently closed around hers.
             The concrete receded and grass appeared, stone and steel melting away to tree and plant, the noises of the grand hall subsiding to a tranquil silence. They were standing in a small glade now, surrounded by towering trees and flowering plants. Specimens of all the kinds of the world were present, from gnarled willow to mighty oak and from humble daisy to brave knight's spur. They stood quietly for a moment that seemed to stretch on into infinity. Only when at long last he turned to face her, and her slim hand slipped from his grasp, did that moment end.
             Her gaze was lowered as if scrutinizing the verdant grass between their feet. When he lightly touched her shoulder, the linen of her simple gown fell away all but by itself. It slid from her gentle form with a soft sigh, as if relieved in revealing what it had previously hidden. She tensed, sleek muscles shifting under smooth skin, her gaze ever to the ground between them as if it were a barricade insurmountable. Her unease was almost tangible. He could see it, feel it, knew it and understood it in a way no other ever could; no other but one's self was ever meant to.
             Upon beholding her gentle form, the fickle wings of time brought back once more half-forgotten memories of yesteryear; of that past that he had long since left behind. She was lithe, agile, fast. She could speed across the unforgiving plains if she must. Avoid the storms, the wyrms, the raiders. She possessed a keen mind, with so much potential. She was healthy, and still young. Too young. She had yet a life ahead of her. No more. She inescapably echoed his past back to him. She was a treasure to his kind.  All are my kind.
She flinched when the back of his hand lightly caressed her cheek. And yet, her gaze remained ever downward. She was troubled, and by more than his presence. It was more than the trembling awe of those overcome by his glory. Its roots were deeper, darker, and its source infinitely more worrisome: despair. He could have learned what he wanted in an instant; the earthworks around her untrained mind were a negligible defence as her thoughts and emotions spilled through her self-made mental palisade. But he didn't.

Tell me.

She tensed, caught. Not only did he see it, the slight tremble abruptly stopping as she froze, he felt it, sensed it, as the palisade was reflexively straightened and fortified. She did not speak, and almost tugged her chin back when he grasped it gently.

Fear me not.

Though she physically relaxed, the inner turmoil remained. It tainted her thoughts so strongly he could almost smell it. He knew he wasn't the source of it, not truly.
"I... i-is it..." she started, her voice so thin, so quiet, its physical sound was all but drowned out by its preceding thought. He waited, quietly patient. Time was meaningless here. She would voice the thoughts he had already heard, when she was ready.

Time had passed or not at all, when she finally spoke once more. "I-is it true, w-what they say?" she began again, her voice barely more than a whisper. "T-that..." her lips parted to speak, but no sound came out. ...You are dying?
             The hint of a smile appeared around his lips and, however faint, it was there; brought on by the genuine solicitude that pervaded her as she formed the thought, stemming from an unconditional love he did not feel deserving of. Though she could not see his shifting expression as her gaze was adverted still, she could feel its soothing warmth across her skin, like a gentle summer's breeze.

When my time comes, I am needed no longer.

"B-but who w-will keep us?"

When I am no more, we keep ourselves.

Yet despite their soothing wisdom, his words caused her despair to flair. "I-I don't understand..." Her mind was reeling; thoughts tumbled one over the other, spilling forth uncontained. Evil out there. Need you. Chaos. All alone. Alone. Who will save us? No one? No one. Alone. Alone. Doomed. Doomed. It was then that he saw the truth of it, sensed it, felt it, and the knowledge of what he must do lay heavy upon his heart. The despair suffused her very essence: a maddening hysteria that had held on to her for so long and so tightly with its wicked claws, that they'd become one and the same.
             A soft noise escaped him, the first true sound in many a generation. Holding her chin he rubbed his thumb past her cheek and shushed her softly. Her mind quieted under his light coercion, yet her physique grew tense once again when her consciousness registered the touch. She trembled slightly under the firm caress, as if only now realising whom she had disputed.
             Her jaw set, he could feel the muscles flex under his fingertips. She gave the grass between their feet a hard stare and the roiling emotions that warred within her dwindled further, though they could never dissipate truly. He marvelled at the sight, at the sense, of her will brought to bear; alone in his understanding of its sheer strength and untapped potential. A touch of pride momentarily lightened the heavy burden of what he must do. Such strength. Yet as swiftly his mood darkened. Such a waste.
             Gently he grasped her small chin once again and tilted her visage up to his. Her features were as those of a porcelain doll: a fair brow that curved down to a small, straight nose flanked by finely arched cheekbones above delicate, expressive lips. A determined little crease ran across the bridge of her nose, her lips pursed defiantly. Her gaze had remained fixed upon the ground, the colour of her eyes shrouded by long lashes. The faint smattering of freckles underneath them gave her youth beyond her years.

Look at me.

Compelled by his words she slowly glanced up, and when her gaze met his all darkness fled from her as shadows did before the sun. Her eyes were large and blue, and in that brief instant he saw them as they were: intelligent, inquisitive and unabashed. It passed in less than a heartbeat, and her eyes filled with unwavering adoration as all else was forgotten. He smiled faintly, his infinite sadness lost on her as she beheld him, unable now to ever look away.
             When once more he lightly caressed her cheek it provoked no response, and his smile slowly waned as he gazed into those adoring, empty eyes. Few could bear his gaze without losing themselves, without being inextricably drawn in as moth to an open flame. It did not just kill them. It destroyed them. It unravelled their mind, their very soul. He knew this – had always known this. His had been a live of solitude, even before he had become... as he was now.
             His expression turned grim. Her mind was at peace now, no longer fettered by the darkness that had pervaded her very being. It strengthened his resolve. He must hold on or all of mankind would be overcome by that darkness. He wished, so very much, that he could save them all. He knew he could not. His strength was waning, and the price of his endurance was great: a thousand each day for the safety of billions. It was the only way.
             He looked upon her smiling visage – the blue eyes, and the light smattering of freckles beneath them, the small nose, curved lips, white teeth, and grief tore at him as he did so. Such a waste.
             Her smile was sweet, but her eyes were empty. Her consciousness as blank as an unwritten parchment, not a single thought rippling its surface. Not one. Her self had subsided, overcome by his own. Soon, she would be truly gone.
             Her essence would join the others, to strengthen his. He could still sense them, all those who had come to him before her, all those whose very soul he had erased from existence. So many, so very many. The passing of every single one of them weighed upon his conscience – as did the deaths of all, every hour of every day, across the expanse of the universe and all the corners of his vast empire. He felt each and every one of them draw their last breath, saw the life leave their eyes as their consciousnesses fell silent forever. And he could do naught but watch, and persevere.

He took her hand once again, but she did not grasp his as before. He led her further into the glade, and she followed quietly, her previous trembling and unsure steps gone. Her gaze never left his. Not even when she stumbled. He caught her, and steadied her, and she simply smiled, and her consciousness remained blank.

Time passed before he stopped walking, though neither the glade nor their location within it had changed. He lifted her up, her delicate form soft and limp in his strong arms, and carefully laid her down onto the grass. She looked up at him as he knelt beside her, smiling still, her blue eyes empty and her consciousness vacant. He brushed a lock from her eyes and leaned towards her. When his lips lightly touched hers, her breath caught as if it was never to resume. And it never would.
             He cradled her head with both hands as he gently kissed her and lay down upon her. She allowed him within her without reservations, and their joining might have lasted for ever, or but the blink of an eye. The profound connection of intimacy was the one key to the human soul. It made the Materium fluid, the boundaries of one mind to another indistinct. He could feel the remnants of her dormant consciousness fade as his own became a fraction shaper, clearer.
             When her consciousness ceased to exist all together, he drew back and cradled her to him as one might an infant. And as he sat there upon the grass, tears flowed freely across his cheeks. He mourned her, and all those before her, and all those who would yet come after.

With time his eyes dried, resigned in their fate. Until a light frown creased his brow, and his eyes reopened. He observed the girl in his arms quietly. He had sensed something, something small and fragile. Something that could not possibly be.

Return...
A single word, soft and barely audible even to him: a whisper on the psychic wind, drifting into his mind. His frown deepened.

Return... to us.
Grief. Desperation. A plea.

He briefly touched her forehead. Her visage was still, serene, and utterly devoid of life. And yet, there was a flicker of consciousness within her. Impossible.
   
Return to us!
Anger. Strong. Convinced.

No consciousness could withstand the touch of his own. No one but... no, she could not be one of them. He would have recognised her. He would have known.

I cannot.
He could not abandon his vigil.

They rule in your name, but not your spirit. You must return to us, or all will be lost!

He knew this, for he knew the hearts and minds of all within his empire.
The risk is too great. The cost, too steep.

She opened her eyes, and they were empty no longer.
It is worth it.

The Custodians did not react when the kneeling girl slumped slightly forward, towards the withered form upon the golden throne, her eyes fluttering closed. The two nearest to her turned, saluting the ancient master of mankind before striding towards her, as they had done uncountable times before. Yet when they reached for a shoulder each, she suddenly cried out. It was a scream of purest anguish that echoed through the vast sanctum and resonated within their heads, leaving in its wake a grief unfathomable. The Custodians halted, uncertain. Never had this happened before.
             A shrill shriek tore itself from her throat as fire spontaneously swept from her, as if bursting from within. She fell back as the flames consumed her simple gown and engulfed her slight frame. She was overcome completely, a vaguely human shape within the fury of the fire's heat and light. Her shriek pitched to impossible heights, shaking even the stalwart guardians.
             And then, just as abruptly, the flames winked out and she went deathly quiet. She lay on her back, her gaze fixed upwards with eyes wide and unblinking. Her breath came in shallow, rapid bursts. Small wisps of smoke coiled up from the sprawling Aquila now marked upon her chest, its twin heads to her clavicles and its wings along the curve of her breasts. The skin was flushed red but unmarked, as if it had burned from the inside.

Time passed truly and she struggled up. Her knees were weak as she started down the steps. And this time, she had to take them all. One by one, until a thousand had passed.
             At the foot of the marble staircase stood a man. He was tall of stature and broad of shoulder, and dressed in leathers and a long, concealing coat. The coat´s high collar cast his visage all but invisible in the shade, for his skin was dark as onyx and his eyes darker still. He was bald, or perhaps he had shaved it, and his age was impossible to guess. He was an unremarkable spot of blandness amid the splendour of his surroundings. Save for a chain around his neck, precious and ornate, from which hung a symbol she did not recognise: it looked like a stylised, trice-pierced 'I'.

"Who are you?" she asked warily. She knew him not.
"You may call me Cesare," he replied calmly, and when a faint smile appeared on his face he seemed almost kind. "Come now," he added as he beckoned her. "You have much to learn, Genevieve."

[Jonagon]

Well that was somewhat surprising!

well written, but..odd. 

[LinnScarlett]

I am aware of the fact that I did just stomp right across everything I told you in my post about writing W40k fiction. Hehe. Limits are there to be pushed and shoved, aren't they? *skids across the thin ice*

I hope you liked it, regardless! Hehe. I was/am quite anxious concerning sharing this particular piece with a W40k community. I am very pleased with it myself, and I think it is one of the best written pieces I've done this year, but... the topic is a bit... well, controversial. Lets call it that.

[Jonagon]

I did enjoy it, but phew, you're gonna get naaaaailed by the hardcore guys!  :derp:

[LinnScarlett]

I did enjoy it, but phew, you're gonna get naaaaailed by the hardcore guys!  :derp:

Risk a little, live a little and dare to wonder, no?
I'm sure the guys are mature enough to deal constructively with it, this isn't BoLS

[BigToof]

Goodness, how did I miss this one?

Linn, you really do have talent.

Please don't go anywhere, or at least keep us frequently updated

Best,
-BT

P.S.  Yes, karma for you!

[LinnScarlett]

It gets swamped out some times, I think. I haven't had much traffic on either on them.
...or people haven't replied. 

./end whine

I am still not sure what karma is - hm, I suppose it makes my e-peen longer? Yes?

Anyway, very glad you liked it. Been a bit antsy about this one (I am sure you can appreciate why). Its quite a major plot-hook to my 'Inquisition' short stories, although I suppose right now it left you with even more questions than answers. My dad always said: if you aim high, aim for the sky. And I think I bounced my aim right across the universe with this one.

I'll tell you a secret: this was my intended BL submission for this year, but I missed the deadline by a few days (and chickened out... a little bit...)

Don't worry, I'll be around. I am generally a very slow writer that endlessly nitpicks over her own wording, so updating might sometimes take quite a while. But, they will be there! ....Eventually...

[BigToof]

Ooh... I could definitely see you as a BL writer.  I know I'd read your work.

In any case, apologies for not being very long-winded in my responses, but I'm not a classically trained writer so I'm often not sure if I'm writing half-correct or just shooting out daft nonsense because I read it somewhere (I handily suspect the later).

As for karma...

Many, many people are unsure as to what it actually means, but I think it's kind of like a measure of how much work you put out that people think are noteworthy.
It's given sparingly, in fact, I think I may be the only one who gives it out more than once a month or so.

It doesn't make you a better person, or indicate that you are "better" than so-and-so, but it is a nice way to look at someone and think, "Cor, this mate is actually putting things out than spamming!" 

Best,
-BT

[LinnScarlett]

That's a steep compliment indeed, thank you! On whimsical days I fancy myself one too. Hehe. We shall see, what the future holds. It's not going to be for lack of trying, that you can count on! I've been working towards improving my writing for a year or two now, and its finally on a benchmark that I think it is 'pretty darn nice' (if I may say so myself). And, come year, I'll feel confident to send something in. And then, I will just pace... and pace... and hope... and pace some more.

Believe it or not, I am not a classically trained (or otherwise trained) writer, either. I just write. And write. And write. I've always liked writing, telling stories. The only book I bought and read, after copious convincing by a friend, is "STYLE: Lessons in Clarity and Grace" by J.M. Williams and G.G. Colomb. It deals more in writing clearly and saying what you mean, and when to intentionally break 'the rules', than 'grammar naziism'.

It's all right, I am looking for people's opinions/feelings/ideas as much as I look for 'technical' advice. Telling me what was particularly cool, or what was too obvious, what could have been nicer if X or without Y, or even random ideas that you think might be fun to have in there - all these things, no matter how trivial they sound, will help me because they tell me how you and others perceived my story, what effects it had on them, and if those align with what I had in mind (other than giving you a good time )

So yea, don't worry about sounding technical or not, just blab away if you have something to share! Like most writers, I love nothing better than talking about my own tales!

I thought karma was something like that. I feel super special now, having racked up two in under... a week, is it? Frak. I feel doubly complimented. 

[Lord Sotek]

I...

Wow, Linn. Just wow.

This is the single most spellbinding and convincing job of peering into the mind of the Emperor, much less as he lies upon the Golden Throne, that I have ever read. It felt Genuine, and deserves that capital; it felt exactly like Emps, and like Emps ought to feel, to me.

I was also enthralled by the "throne's eye view" description of the fuelling of the Astronomican; it was just so... right.

To be honest, the nature of what takes place here at the end throws me some strong Mary Sue-dar vibes from Genevieve's direction, but in light of how passive a role she plays in these events and how breathtaking the rest of the writing was, I'm inclined not to make a fuss about it.

Now that that's done with, two rather less profound side comments:

1. I know what your cat's name is, so I think I see what you did there. In which case, while I'm fully aware of how implausible certain parts of the story are, I officially christen this tale my unofficial reason behind why the 6th ed rulebook says the light of the Astronomican is waning.

2. Accepting your premise on the "throne's eye view" and the happenings therein when he absorbs Genevieve into the Choir, I find myself wondering whether Emps makes tender lovin's to the male offerings for the Astropathic Choir as well. Part of me kind of hopes he does; gender equality and all that!  Plus, the big guy did come from ancient Greece...

[Chocomel]

2. Accepting your premise on the "throne's eye view" and the happenings therein when he absorbs Genevieve into the Choir, I find myself wondering whether Emps makes tender lovin's to the male offerings for the Astropathic Choir as well. Part of me kind of hopes he does; gender equality and all that!  Plus, the big guy did come from ancient Greece...

I mentioned that to linn too, with a small example of Vieve talking about it with dreamy eyes and a male psyker replying "all i remember is that my arse hurted for weeks"

[LinnScarlett]

2. Accepting your premise on the "throne's eye view" and the happenings therein when he absorbs Genevieve into the Choir, I find myself wondering whether Emps makes tender lovin's to the male offerings for the Astropathic Choir as well. Part of me kind of hopes he does; gender equality and all that!  Plus, the big guy did come from ancient Greece...

I mentioned that to linn too, with a small example of Vieve talking about it with dreamy eyes and a male psyker replying "all i remember is that my dyi hurted for weeks"

And it wasn't even an implication made deliberate either, heh! I just wrote it, read it back and went: HM. OH WELL. :p

[LinnScarlett]

I am pleased that you like the story so well, Isaac! It was one hell of a ride to write, and I was/am quite anxious concerning it's reception here.

Ultimately, it just shows how I envision the Emperor post-ascendency and post-10.000-years-of-isolation. Humans are, ultimately, social creatures and herd animals, and even He (despite his nigh omnipotent powers) is still expressively outlined in fluff as being still human. And isolation does strange things to the human psychi.

How I see him in earlier ascendency periods? I have not thought about that yet. Idealistic, possibly, full of plans, undoubtedly. How I see him prior to ascendency? Well, you'll just have to wait for me to get around to writing 'The Thunder King'. 

1. I know what your cat's name is, so I think I see what you did there. In which case, while I'm fully aware of how implausible certain parts of the story are, I officially christen this tale my unofficial reason behind why the 6th ed rulebook says the light of the Astronomican is waning.

My rabbit's name, in fact. And yes, you might very well be on to something there. Let's just say Inquisitor Cesare is like Socrates: he appears to exist only in the dedicated accounts authored by his favoured pupil. 

I am honoured you'd christen my writing as your official unofficial fluff.