Approach the Throne
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| [//sean_d/@nomadpainting88+] |
He's coming?
A nod. Curt, hard to make out.
Darkness returns.
***
Of all the possible approaches, this I did not expect. I have heard my Lord called many things; and mercurial is often amongst the first.
Contrary, too, if the speaker is feeling brave.
Bent at the waist, he sits on a stool to one side of the bridge. Small for his stature, the stool seems to me a poor throne. Martial and pragmatic, it is at least somewhat fitting for a prince returning to a home that has forgotten him.
In the absence of parades; in the face of hostility and doubt, we have been ordered to adapt. He does so; as naturally as he ever has. Adapt. Surround. Learn the lessons of Ocean.
Looking through the viewport into the Mourn Expanse, as though he can see something. He rests his chin in one hand; the other drumming idly on Monstrance. The head of the great argent mace, reshaped into the skull-headed eagle he brought as his symbol, still looks strange to me. He has been silent for some time, but does not seem to be brooding.
***
He's coming.
The word passes from man to man in a sussrrus.
They assemble, coalescing in the gloomy hangar like a clot. Some bear the old crimson hands; others – the hopeful, the easier to please – the golden arm.
***
Warning glyphs insist themselves on my vision repeatedly. I breathe out forcefully, dismissing the glaring yellow and red; but the second my attention lapses, they return, summoned by subconscious tension. We are drum-tight. Rua pips the vox-net; cancels. Group overview tells me Kolinaisi is hunting through vision modes; a tell. Rua pips the vox again; Tane clatters his pauldron irritably. Stress bleeds from my comrades and I; combat-narrowing our vision and attention. I feel it must appear as a near-palpable cloud.
But this... this is not a combat drop.
We are visiting friends.
The shuttle continues its stately progression, lonely running lights winking in the infinite void.
***
A proximity alarm; sound only. A burbling, weak alarm, choked-sounding. Peons scuttle amongst the assembled ranks of the Star Wardens.
At last, one comes; hands a charring rope to the Nychterida. He does not tear his gaze from the hangar doors as he lights the chandelier.
The lights are wax, lit from a taper, as is traditional. As is fitting for a lost father.
He returns. He brings answers, and comfort. He brings a light.
Pray that it reveals something more beautiful than the darkness.
***
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| [//The False Primarch+] [//edward_r/@death_of_a_rubricist+] |