[WH40k] Corazon
Posted: 2006-01-28 05:00am
I've never written a WH40k fanfic before, so I thought I'd give it a shot. I'll need to, eventually, research the following:
-The structures on Terra
-What the Astronomicon actually entails (Where the psykers are relative to the GEOM, that kind of thing)
-Adeptus Custodes (names, appearances, weaponry)
-Who's Who on Terra (High Lords, Eclisiarchs, guards, whatever)
But for now I'm just going to write this out and see how it goes.
Thanks for your time!
---------------------------------------------
Liam walked into the Throne Room. He walked alone, striding in confidently and casually, yet there was a subtle difference. Lawrence saw the difference and recognized it for what it was.
“Ah, at last,” he thought, “the time has come.”
Liam strode towards the Golden Throne, wearing a plasma pistol at his side. Lawrence tightened his grip on his Nemesis Force Weapon ever so slightly, anticipation tingling through him like a light rain, the Liams always came to this point. Liam stopped before the Golden Throne and looked up at the giant structure, the interweaving black and gray metallic equipment, warped and ancient like a massive redwood, the corpse of a God hanging in it. Liam seemed to study the dead eyes of the God while Lawrence studied Liam. He was old, for a Liam, the gray hair had set in. This one had grown old and married and had children, not a common outcome for a Liam. Lawrence even began to hope that this one would die of old age. It happened occasionally. But now he saw it was a false hope and mourned silently for his friend.
“Perhaps he will not do it,” he prayed for this to the God, a strange thing. He was different than his brethren because he was the only one to ever notice how far the God was despite being so close. The paradox of this never left him, and it amused his brethren, this was why, they said, he was chosen to be the companion of the Liam, with their annoying questions. There was joy to it, but to him fell the final duty for the fate of all the Liams.
“I understand how this must end,” said Liam to the Divine Body but Lawrence sensed the words were directed to him, “I understand how this all must end.” Lawrence, his movements soft, gentle, unnoticeable prepared. The moment was approaching, he felt it like the distant roar of the sea, building and building, the Moment that the Liams always came to, bringing him with him. The Liam, quick as a flicker of light on a cloudy day, drew his pistol and raised it to the corpse.
The Liam's finger almost pulled the trigger. There, the blur of motion, and Lawrence stood beside him as the Liam fell apart, the Nemesis Force Weapon passing through his frame like it were nothing but empty space. For, after all, thought Lawrence, the Liam was only human. The cut was perfect, a single line, a molecule's width, the Liam felt no pain in his passing. But Lawrence still knelt down beside him and held his remaining hand until he went wherever men go when they died.
“Go with God,” said Lawrence and prayed, prayed over the dead body of his friend to the God a few feet away and yet, in Lawrence's heart, seemed nowhere to be found.
- - - - -
“What is birth without pain?” Liam's father had once said to him when he had fallen off of his bicycle. Liam had never understood him until the moment of his second birth, the plunge, the rainbow of pain, and the sudden stop after a long fall. He sat up, panting, freezing, burning, blinded by the light, deafened by sound. He looked around and saw that he was in some kind of dark morgue like chamber. The walls were covered with small heavy metal doors, the floor grated, the ceiling low and dimly lit. He lay on a metal table, naked.
“Aaaah,” he said, wordless, his mouth numbed, sluggish. He fell off of the table and curled up, the sensations, all of them, too violent, too much, he cried wordlessly. The hand on his shoulder caused him to look up and then he saw it. It looked like a man but so much more than a man, the creature was gigantic, towering over him like the father over a three year old child. The face was kind but hard, an ancient face that had the history of violence etched into it, a patient face, shaved head, scared across one eye, a jagged lightning bolt, another scar across the throat, like a starfish. But the presence most of all wounded him, the creature was too alive, power radiated from it, it seared Liam and he cried all the more, writhing. The hand gently, with a sense of an earthquake's power tightly controlled by a will, shook him. Words, spoken from a voice that the Earth would speak in, older than time, deeper than the oceans, flowed over him. High Gothic words and slowly he came to.
“The shock will pass,” said Lawrence, “it always will pass.” This Liam was taking poorly, it was a bad sign. Trauma early on usually presaged mental illness later.
“Where am I?” asked Liam, his High Gothic ancient and, now, heavily accented.
“You are on Holy Terra,” said Lawrence, “we are in a secret chamber in the Imperial Palace.”
“What is going on?” asked Liam, the questions, always the same questions, thought Lawrence, at least I have answers for these.
“You were dead,” said Lawrence, “this has been corrected.”
“Corrected?”
“The God had chosen you to live again,” Lawrence said, “you have been lifted up from other men for you have a great task to perform.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Liam confused, Lawrence sighed slightly and helped him up, ever so carefully, he was strong enough to grind Liam into bones, to shatter him with the slightest of uncontrolled gestures. He guided Liam with infinite care to another chamber where he helped him dress. Liam was shaking, his legs were weak. The sickness would pass, Lawrence knew, but it fascinated him nonetheless.
Weakness. He tasted the word. What a strange thing. Why had the God given them Weakness? He once asked the first among his brethren. The answer was, “Because He wills it so.” And it was true, Lawrence saw that.
“Come,” he said, once Lawrence was wearing white robes and sandals, “you must eat, it will help you feel better.” Liam, his eyes blank, followed, guided by the giant who hovered over him like a mother wolf.
-The structures on Terra
-What the Astronomicon actually entails (Where the psykers are relative to the GEOM, that kind of thing)
-Adeptus Custodes (names, appearances, weaponry)
-Who's Who on Terra (High Lords, Eclisiarchs, guards, whatever)
But for now I'm just going to write this out and see how it goes.
Thanks for your time!
---------------------------------------------
Liam walked into the Throne Room. He walked alone, striding in confidently and casually, yet there was a subtle difference. Lawrence saw the difference and recognized it for what it was.
“Ah, at last,” he thought, “the time has come.”
Liam strode towards the Golden Throne, wearing a plasma pistol at his side. Lawrence tightened his grip on his Nemesis Force Weapon ever so slightly, anticipation tingling through him like a light rain, the Liams always came to this point. Liam stopped before the Golden Throne and looked up at the giant structure, the interweaving black and gray metallic equipment, warped and ancient like a massive redwood, the corpse of a God hanging in it. Liam seemed to study the dead eyes of the God while Lawrence studied Liam. He was old, for a Liam, the gray hair had set in. This one had grown old and married and had children, not a common outcome for a Liam. Lawrence even began to hope that this one would die of old age. It happened occasionally. But now he saw it was a false hope and mourned silently for his friend.
“Perhaps he will not do it,” he prayed for this to the God, a strange thing. He was different than his brethren because he was the only one to ever notice how far the God was despite being so close. The paradox of this never left him, and it amused his brethren, this was why, they said, he was chosen to be the companion of the Liam, with their annoying questions. There was joy to it, but to him fell the final duty for the fate of all the Liams.
“I understand how this must end,” said Liam to the Divine Body but Lawrence sensed the words were directed to him, “I understand how this all must end.” Lawrence, his movements soft, gentle, unnoticeable prepared. The moment was approaching, he felt it like the distant roar of the sea, building and building, the Moment that the Liams always came to, bringing him with him. The Liam, quick as a flicker of light on a cloudy day, drew his pistol and raised it to the corpse.
The Liam's finger almost pulled the trigger. There, the blur of motion, and Lawrence stood beside him as the Liam fell apart, the Nemesis Force Weapon passing through his frame like it were nothing but empty space. For, after all, thought Lawrence, the Liam was only human. The cut was perfect, a single line, a molecule's width, the Liam felt no pain in his passing. But Lawrence still knelt down beside him and held his remaining hand until he went wherever men go when they died.
“Go with God,” said Lawrence and prayed, prayed over the dead body of his friend to the God a few feet away and yet, in Lawrence's heart, seemed nowhere to be found.
- - - - -
“What is birth without pain?” Liam's father had once said to him when he had fallen off of his bicycle. Liam had never understood him until the moment of his second birth, the plunge, the rainbow of pain, and the sudden stop after a long fall. He sat up, panting, freezing, burning, blinded by the light, deafened by sound. He looked around and saw that he was in some kind of dark morgue like chamber. The walls were covered with small heavy metal doors, the floor grated, the ceiling low and dimly lit. He lay on a metal table, naked.
“Aaaah,” he said, wordless, his mouth numbed, sluggish. He fell off of the table and curled up, the sensations, all of them, too violent, too much, he cried wordlessly. The hand on his shoulder caused him to look up and then he saw it. It looked like a man but so much more than a man, the creature was gigantic, towering over him like the father over a three year old child. The face was kind but hard, an ancient face that had the history of violence etched into it, a patient face, shaved head, scared across one eye, a jagged lightning bolt, another scar across the throat, like a starfish. But the presence most of all wounded him, the creature was too alive, power radiated from it, it seared Liam and he cried all the more, writhing. The hand gently, with a sense of an earthquake's power tightly controlled by a will, shook him. Words, spoken from a voice that the Earth would speak in, older than time, deeper than the oceans, flowed over him. High Gothic words and slowly he came to.
“The shock will pass,” said Lawrence, “it always will pass.” This Liam was taking poorly, it was a bad sign. Trauma early on usually presaged mental illness later.
“Where am I?” asked Liam, his High Gothic ancient and, now, heavily accented.
“You are on Holy Terra,” said Lawrence, “we are in a secret chamber in the Imperial Palace.”
“What is going on?” asked Liam, the questions, always the same questions, thought Lawrence, at least I have answers for these.
“You were dead,” said Lawrence, “this has been corrected.”
“Corrected?”
“The God had chosen you to live again,” Lawrence said, “you have been lifted up from other men for you have a great task to perform.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Liam confused, Lawrence sighed slightly and helped him up, ever so carefully, he was strong enough to grind Liam into bones, to shatter him with the slightest of uncontrolled gestures. He guided Liam with infinite care to another chamber where he helped him dress. Liam was shaking, his legs were weak. The sickness would pass, Lawrence knew, but it fascinated him nonetheless.
Weakness. He tasted the word. What a strange thing. Why had the God given them Weakness? He once asked the first among his brethren. The answer was, “Because He wills it so.” And it was true, Lawrence saw that.
“Come,” he said, once Lawrence was wearing white robes and sandals, “you must eat, it will help you feel better.” Liam, his eyes blank, followed, guided by the giant who hovered over him like a mother wolf.