#divinituscaptivus

" It won't make me anymore a saint, if I did, " Malcador humors, a flash of concern over his eyes with total uncertainty, " though, where are these missives coming from? "

cont. — @divinituscaptivus

Within Sulla's arms, he beheld the world. His world, all that remained of it, in the unforgiving depths of this universe. He could not gather all the pieces falling from his grasp; all the bones and ashen blood wrapped into a broken man so immense in stature, it was everything the Praetor to do to host his weight.

There lived attempts to lift his helm away from where they buried into scarred over skin, carving in misery where there should be none. Though, Sulla finds quickly he could not move, stuck still under a surmounting weight of grief as his Emperor wept over him.

For what would a king so mighty weep for? He does not know. He won't pretend to know— it seems all his doctoring has left his mind unable of such preponderance.

Again, he tries with a frail parting of ruined lips, scrounging enough strength to speak," my king of kings. " He beckons his attention somewhere in the pits of his agony, yet when presented such wide opportunity to speak, he found he cannot, for he had no clue what to say.

PROMPTS FOR ORDINARY THINGS THAT FEEL INTIMATE

In the eyes of the many Thunder Warriors-- Constantin Valdor, First of what would be the Ten Thousand, was a different beast altogether.

He was faster than them. Quicker with how he swung his spear, stronger in how he could flip tanks, braver when he could charge into battlefronts without even the slightest flinch. He was everything a warrior should be. Perhaps, the perfect human, crafted by the Emperor's hands like a master artisan and the finest clay.

It was after one of his many engagements, one of which where they would be added to what would-- eventually-- be the 1932 names he'd have, that Valdor had to take a moment to breathe.

It all went like a blur for Constantin. One moment, he'd cut through so many warriors that the entirety of Constantin's brass-plate (as he did not yet earn what would be his Corinthine Warplate) and himself were just stained red. The next, after the battle was over and the adrenaline had worn off, he found himself almost doubling over with all the wounds he'd gotten from the fight-- it was to the point even Ushotan had to call out the way he wobbled and just barely could stand.

So, it was a surprise that when Valdor had pulled himself fully to consciousness instead of his dazed barely-keeping-it-together state, that he was being tended to by the Emperor himself.

" My lord... " the young Constantin tried to murmur, as if fretting while bandages were tightened around his waist and chest and wrapped over his shoulder.

" I-I should, be able to heal. Such wounds do not mean anything. You created me to be a warrior, and a warrior I am. "

And yet, Constantin was in no place to argue. Not like he could with the Emperor. So, the Custodian laid there in the makeshift cot, still as can be, the only movements from him being the occasional shiver from his blood loss.

The very marrow in his bones ached. His armor hung heavy like a penance than it did an honor. And, to make matters worse, Terra was somehow so much brighter — blinding — without its bronze and glass towers. Yet, in all his wanting to submit to the very dirt and die ( probably ), he marched on to nowhere. It was his spirit that anchored him to realspace, weaving in some purpose to tether him to this realm; he doesn't understand it. It was simpler to admit that he had plainly gone mad than to decipher this subconscious motive.

Somewhere from the entrance of the golden gates towards the heart of where his life used to be, he drops however many kilometers down over cliff onto weather volcanic glass.

What good was it to be here? It was all gone.

He moves. Sulla never stops moving. The sweltering sun weighs him in by the step and he swears the connective tissue of his body has long eroded, but conviction kept him in motion until he was seemingly graced with a distant presence. The outline of someone in the depths of this echoing cavern.

The Custodian clambers over towards it, Champion Spear serving as a walking stick before a weapon, puncturing nature's glass with every step until he meets this crumpled flesh. This...

By the Throne, he thinks but never says. His throat has long gave, so it was all he could do to stab his stare into what he could have sworn...

@divinituscaptivus continued from here.

--

Oh, by the old gods, what had happened to him?

No longer was this just-- technically Himself, but it was a being that surpassed mortality, something morphed, changed, forced to consume so many souls just to survive, constantly tortured and in ceaseless agony. Yet, in some horrible way, there was a beauty in its indescribable form, with golden light piercing the darkness of the void.

Compassion peered through His hair, horror filling His very being... but there was no place He could run. So instead, He could only do what He did best. As the psychic feelers came forward, what met them was warmth instead of the coldness of the Warp. It was like huddling near a fire after ages of being trapped in an endless storm, with the scents of homecooked meals from ages long past, the feeling of arms hugged around them-- around every single soul. A comforting whisper, a murmur of love.

The shard's skin sizzled as He fought His spiritual restraints. Fingers curled against the arms of His horrid Throne, eye twitching while He focused His mind. It was undoubtedly weaker compared to the cacophony of voices that met Him, but the voice kept its softness, its understanding.

" ... You are in there, my old friend. " Ayhan whispered, voice cracking and straining while His skin burned.

" S-Such are the aspects of Love, no? It can be painful. It can make You feel sick. But there are so many good things You had forgotten-- what You've forgotten, I remember. "

" Oh... my old friend... "

Ayhan brought His hands out, offering them out to find wherever the head of His other half was. All that pain, that suffering-- it broke His heart, shattered it. He beckoned the creature forward.

" Come here... You finally found me-- do You remember the good times? The laughter, the swelling joy when Your-- Our sons were made? The excitement at realizing Mankind has a chance? Or even, far before that, into the very beginnings of it all... let those souls go, breathe. I am right here... Kusig. "

" And I never left... I waited here, just for You. "

dad loves him?????

beneath  those  simple  words  laid  a  long-nourished  malice.  she  kept  her  features  decorous,  as  expected  of  her  station,  but  there  was  little  hiding  the  secret,  spring-warm  pleasure  that  flowed  from  her  mind  against  his.  not  from  him.

Valdor could only stare at his lord when such a thing was uttered.

It was obvious, of course. Terra had fallen-- and the Imperium, in Valdor's eyes, was already doomed. Without the Astronomican, the ships could not go through the Warp. Without Terra, there was no leadership, no hub, no capitol. And of course, without the Emperor being focused enough to answer the prayers of others, it meant the Imperium's Golden God had gone silent. No other Custodians seemed to be alive, either-- at least, not the ones that were stationed at Terra.

Mankind was doomed.

Had it truly been back then, Constantin would have at least tried to keep hope. He tried in the Heresy, of course, as well as the beginnings of the ages afterward, but with the endless, constant, ten thousand years in the Immaterium, Valdor had changed.

Indeed, he still looked human, outwardly. Still the Captain-General that the Emperor oh-so-meticulously crafted. Yet his soul was changed. Warped. By the ancient Cognitae cults and what they believed Valdor was-- the King in Yellow.

It could probably be felt-- the way he loomed, how his eyes burned a bright yellow instead of their gentle hazel. His shadow changed when cast along the wall-- depicting a creature, a thing, with tendrils instead of legs and wings that sprouted painfully from its back, with a deer skull for a head and antlers sprouting from it. The Captain-General wore a yellow mantle, of which it hid dirtied and blackened Corinthine Warplate that was still, mostly, maintained. The Apollonian Spear rested upon his back. He was pallid as can be, his hair having grown out into an unruly mane, and warpfrost often covered the tips of his cloak or his gauntlets. The warp itself reacted to him-- and while he did not compare to Kusig's very presence, he was no longer a normal man.

He could not fault the Emperor for rising from His Throne, and yet Valdor felt silent frustration despite it-- a strong emotion, of which he finally could feel after his mantra and whatever suppression in his mind had faded, bringing about emotions that Valdor only felt in the smallest of increments back then.

Constantin had been silent during their time at the Ursa Major-- the forgotten, silent ship of the Second Legion. Valdor remembered this place, when it had been decreed that Aurelius would be excommunicated and wiped from Imperial records.

What were they to do? he wanted to ask the Emperor. Terra had fallen. Did they expect another Imperium Secundus? Merely move the capitol to Ultramar just like before? There was still the issue about the Astronomican. So many ships, being lost to the Warp. Aurelius's own ship would be lost, too, if they even TRIED to warp-jump. The closest thing Constantin could think of, would be if he delved into the Warp again and figured something out with the realm he created during the Emperor's internment-- the City of Dust... but Constantin could only do so much. He was no god.

All he could do was take a deep breath as he stayed near Kusig's side, as he always did, in the groaning halls of the phalanx-class ship.

" ... My lord, " The King in Yellow began with a slight murmur, " are you well? "

A foolish question, Constantin thought, for the Emperor was not well. Why would he be? Mankind would crumble or be subjugated under xenos and Chaos threats alike-- and they barely had resources of their own, save for this decrepit ship and a Primarch who could barely walk. Maybe they could reach other places. Mars, Jupiter... but what would that gain them? Nothing, Valdor pessimistically believed. So he supposed, silently, that he, the Emperor, and his son would only be able to watch as everything slowly collapsed. Everything they built.

At this point, returning to the Warp felt like a far more fruitful endeavor.