Chapitre 52: Chapter Twenty-Three: On Silver Wings (Part I)
Location: The Primarch's quarters, Imperial Palace.
Date: 792.M30
Memory is a curious thing. It is incredibly inaccurate and easily tampered with. Yet it sculpts sentient life more than any other force. Conjuring up the right memory at the right time can save or damn someone. Mental ghosts of agony can cripple more easily than any blade or bomb. Similarly, remembrance of lessons and connections can push beings past all conceivable limits. For those burdened with power and responsibility beyond understanding, memory becomes a signpost. Moments filtered through recollection help guide those shouldered with monumental duties and keep them true to what they wish to be and need to be. One of these memories, belonging to a very special being, would help change the course of Galactic history. It starts like so many stories that shape the saga of sentient life. It started with a child crying.
Even during its early years of construction, the Imperial Palace of Terra was a labyrinthian colossus. Spanning thousands of kilometers across the homeworld and over two hundred kilometers from its tallest spires to deepest dungeons. When the first designs were put forth, the War-Masons and Architect-Clans were stunned and confused by the structure. Only upon further inspection did the genius and reasoning behind the skeleton the Emperor provided became apparent. Upon finally understanding a modicum of its purpose and its perfection, the War-Masons and later the Primarchs helped design the megastructures details.
The basic design was penned by the Emperor himself. An architectural outline to be filled in over the centuries. The reason for this curious style was the Emperor's long term intent with the palace. Humans as a species build things for current or immediately noticeable needs. With structures designed to last centuries or millennia at the maximum. The Imperial place was the opposite. It was built for purposes apparent now and in thousands of years. Designed to withstand war, disaster, and time itself for geologic ages.
Such a megastructure is built to change with the millennia and be easily updated and modified. For this purpose, countless passages, chambers, and nooks dot the palace. Unused and waiting for some future purpose. Hidden away in the gothic vaulting of the Primarchs quarters was one such place. A small balcony that provided access to a number of maintenance hatches. Its elevated location, hidden between baroque outcroppings and tucked away nature made it a perfect hiding spot. A place of solitude and reflection for the only Primarch who could easily access it. Dante: The Ninth Primarch and Imperial Angel.
A little over ten terran years old the demi-god would often escape to this perch. Seeking solitude and peace. Recently, Dante had taken to his roost for more unpleasant reasons. Hiding away out of fear and pain. Fear of his brothers, his father, and himself. Pain originating from his body and mind. Dante had started to wonder why he is what he is. He alone among the Primarch possessed wings. While many of his brothers possessed traits beyond even the most magnified human abilities. They all had legitimacy in Imperial law and human history. The inclusion of Genetics from Terran species and environmental adaptations were common and understood. All but the most extreme abhumans and spliced were accepted into the Imperium.
Dante's wings did not seem to fall into any of those categories. No Terran vertebrate, let alone mammal held six limbs. Nor possessed wings that on closer inspection seemed less like those of a Bird of Prey but instead something far more Alien. The structure and joints were flexible to a disturbing degree. The feathers looked like the smooth plumage of birds but internally were more like organic blades carved into aerodynamic form. Additionally, his bones were a latticework of compounds and alloys. Granting additional mobility and strength beyond his brothers. While his psychic powers were needed for true flight, even fully armored he could glide upon his wings.
The Primarchs' very being was marred with Archeotech and biology clearly beyond the acceptable. Where some of his siblings would wear this power and nature like a badge of honor. Flashing it at every opportunity, as Magnus demonstrated. Dante found his wings worrying and dangerous instead. He knew he and his brothers' creation had been a precarious thing. His enhanced nature indicated he was a prototype even among his siblings. Such thoughts were disconcerting but the other source of his misery turned these disturbing thoughts to outright fear.
For the IX Primarch felt deep within him something utterly terrifying. A rage as black as the void and a hunger for violence unquenchable. At the edge of his consciousness was something beyond comprehension. Mind shattering wrath honed into a diamond-sharp edge. Constantly calling out for destruction. To be unleashed upon the unworthy. A thirsting phantom that desired to be unleashed. Putting all of Dante's power to the purpose of annihilation. No matter what he tried to distance himself from this force the Primarch could not. Simply because it was no curse or chaotic intrusion. It was part of him, as much as his wings and his soul.
Rapidly developing his psychic powers the Lord of the Ninth to-be scryed his future. Desperate to uncover the purpose and danger of this crimson rage within him. Peering into the possible is not beyond the scope of any trained psyker. Doing it accurately and consistently, however, is. Dante and Konrad were born with a natural knack for this type of power. Twin seers to watch mankind and intervene when necessary. When looking into the future Dante saw it as a series of paths. Strings of cause and effect that reached from a single moment into the eons. With each event branching into countless paths. Creating an impossible web of possibility, ranging from the probable to theoretical.
As he mastered this skill the IX Primarch learned to take tentative steps along the path of destiny. Following three basic rules. First to never trust any path as the truth. They are all possibilities and easily changed by countless actors. Second to follow the Emperor and Malcador's example. Differing to their judgment and skill. Lastly that when it seems no good options are available. Take the most branching path to ensure the most possibilities to return to the course you desire.
Using these guidelines Dante peered into the future and saw countless strands of fate. Some as strong and solid as sail-tested rope. Others frayed and split by the unknown and possible. The more certain an event the stronger and larger this thread/path. With far too many blackened threads thicker than Blackwood Trunks leading to mankind's extinction or enslavement. Yet the Primarch always found comfort in a single path of brilliant gold. As unblemished and solid as pure aurumite. This was the shining path. A perilously thin and taut string of fate leading to ascension. Where mankind could not just survive but thrive. With every action of the Emperor and his servants that faint path grew stronger and brighter. Even before his very eyes, Dante watched as the Master of Mankind wove it ever larger. The Imperium acting as some great loom of destiny. Each subject of Revelation; a string working to weave themselves into a stronger path.
All twenty Primarch were woven into this shining path. Each playing integral roles to preserve and extend this thread of survival. Dante could peer into his brother's futures and catch snippets of who they were born to be. Mighty Rogal sheltering trillions under his golden Aegis. Clever Tengri wandering the outer-void laughing as he kills scourges from beyond the stars. Wise Magnus seated upon a Throne of Gold, plugged into the secrets of the cosmos itself. Of course, he could also see what might occur if any of his brothers failed. How Iskandar could grow a serpent's tail and join the Court of Pleasure. Or Philip's zeal might blind him to the truth he seeks. All of these possible futures diverged from each other at key points. Sometimes that point was crystal clear, other times lost in the fog of possibility. Yet all split at one point.
One exception existed of course. When Dante peered into his own future he saw two possibilities. An angel of light and beauty that protected with golden spear and tender mercy. Everything he hoped to be. Contrasted by an angel of blood and fury. Bringing doom and rage upon the galaxy. These two fates were no fractures or split threads along his destiny. Instead the twin Angels Dante foresaw overlapped. Existing together in a duality of being. Contradicting destiny somehow spun together. No matter what he tried, no matter how hard he scryed. The Primarch always saw the two angels together. One of lily-white wings that sheltered the weak. Another with Bloody-blades for feathers that screamed for vengeance and death.
This paradoxical and unnerving vision scared Dante. Shaking him to his core and making him question his existence. Was he a defect? A broken angel cursed to carry a schizoid nature. Seeking to do good and bring hope while born with an addiction to bloodshed and war. This misery led the youthful Primarch to his current state. Tucked away from his family and teachers in a hidden ledge he pondered his wings with a blade in hand.
When faced with the suffering and the unknown mankind always struggled with the abyss. The call of annihilation. The maddening desire to hurt oneself. Now even a Demi-God faced that dreadful siren song. Repressed pain and fear bubbling forth in a geyser of illness. The Primarchs were born larger than life. With minds and bodies near deific in proportion. This was matched by their emotions. A Primarchs joy burned brighter than the Sun, his rage capable of swallowing worlds. The Demi-Gods misery could drown billions. This byproduct of their transhuman and warp-born nature granted them profound humanity. While cursing them battle an internal maelstrom of galeforce feelings. As they grew in wisdom the Primarchs would master their nature and not be subject to herculean whims. That was not the case for poor Dante at this tender age.
Seeking something, anything to stop the bloody fury inside of him Dante planned the unthinkable. He would not disgrace himself and bring this shameful defect to his father. He would carve his mutation and failure from his very flesh. With a piece of metal gripped between his jaws and a cruelly edged dagger in hand. The Primarch prepared to cut off his wings. Sating his rage upon his own flesh and discarding what separates him from his brothers. With something between a snarl and a whimper, the Primarch made the first incision. His dagger slowly cutting through flesh and bone made to withstand bolt-fire.
Drops of sanguine blood trickled between white feathers. Biting through his make-shift gag of iron the Primarch's eyes flashed from sky-blue to ichor-red. His black rage transformed into self-destructive acts. Pausing his mutilation to suck in lungfuls of recycled air. Dante prepared to continue cutting. Gripping the knife with a shaky hand he pressed it into his flesh. Something blazing hot and unbearably bright grabbed the Primarchs wrist with adamant grip. Shocked, the Primarch dropped the knife and looked up. Staring down at him was a golden mask. Angelic features sculpted with disquieting perfection. Tears cut from opulent rubies traced somber paths down the mask. A figure formed of light and memory gripped Dante's wrist. Wearing the death-mask of an Angel and flanked by wings of fire. Just as quickly as it appeared the angelic phantom faded away.
Stunned and confused the young Primarch did not notice another figure now occupied the hidden alcove. Clad in a simple tunic, with his hair bound back the Emperor of Mankind had arrived. He had been hundreds of miles away, deep within his laboratory. Pouring over occult technology and analyzing the production quality of Astartes. Then a flicker of something at the back of his mind caught his attention. For a moment the Emperor felt his IX son's pain. Transmitted to him by the ghost of an Angel. He had raced to Dante and would have been a moment too late if the ghost had not intervened.
Realizing his father stood before him, shame filled the young Primarch. At a loss for words, Dante fumbled over his tongue as the Emperor approached him. Stoic as the mountains the palace rested upon the Emperor showed no emotion as he marched towards his wounded son. At that moment Dante feared his father more than anything. Imagining what horrid fate might await him. Would he be discarded as a failure? Or rebuilt in the hidden laboratories of Luna into something more suiting his father's needs. Worst of all part of the Primarch feared his father would pick up the discarded dagger and command him to continue cutting. The Emperor of Mankind did none of those things, in fact, the Emperor was not truly there. For a single moment, the mask of the Master of Mankind dropped. In its place was Atham the Revelator, an impossibly old man who grieved his son's pain. Dropping to his knees, Revelation wrapped his arms around his son and held him close.
Like a damn bursting Dante's pain detonated. He seemed to deflate as his sadness poured out of him. The Primarch wept into his father's arms as Revelation held him. They sat there for a long time. A scared demigod hugged close by his divine father. As his sobs grew weaker and his tears dried Dante looked up at his father and asked: "Why did you give me wings father?"
A sad smile crossed the Revelations face and he gently touched the clotted-over wound on his son's wing. A spark of light from ancient fingers flowed across the crude incision and healed it near instantly. Gesturing for his son to sit next to him Revelation spoke: "Because it's what mankind has always dreamed of. Since the first hominids glanced skyward our species has dreamed of flight. Natural selection never ordained us with wings or air-sacks. Instead, we imagined the impossible. The idea of winged humans became the first and most potent symbol of mankind transcending its boundaries. Becoming more than what the universe intended and forming a connection to power and purpose. "
With a flick of his fingers, Revelation summoned up a fire that twisted into shapes. Of a man with wax-wings falling from the sky. An ancient genius carving wings of canvas and wood. Two brothers building the first aeroplane. A somber expression crossed the ancient immortal's face as he spoke. "Many things set you and your brothers apart from mortal humans Dante. Most humans go their entire life searching for purpose, a reason to justify and validate their existence. That quest often defines the lives of trillions. My son, you were robbed of that, and gifted a clear and concrete purpose. In my opinion that creates the largest gap is simultaneously the great strength and weakness of the Primarchs. Each of your brothers and you were born to play a role in ensuring mankind's survival and ascension. It is a heavy burden, but one I believe you will all grow into perfectly. This role, in fact, brings us back to those wings I gave you. Dante, you are mankind's hope. A symbol of what we can be and what we must be. You are the messenger of humanity's future. The Imperial Angel who watches and protects. Setting an example to aspire to. You, my son, are our hopes for the future. You were created to help mankind survive and eventually thrive. Dante my son, I gave you wings so you could help teach mankind to fly."
État de l’alimentation hebdomadaire
-- Classement
Power Stone 
-- Power
stone