#warhams40k

The world around Garviel Locken was slowly, chaotically crumbling away. Upon the horizon large mushroom clouds bloomed into the open sky, painting the heavens with the erratic hues of red, orange, yellow and blinding white. The loud, violent boom of weaponry and explosives did not yield, did not allow for a natural lull to seep in, everywhere and at every second the sound of death clamored to be heard. Debris, filth and ash choked the air; it rained like water and then lingered to suffocate the space.

The world around Garviel Locken was dying, and he knew he too was doing the same. He felt his body resting on the ground, a part of his torso propped up awkwardly by something hard. He couldn’t feel his legs anymore and wasn’t entirely sure if they were still there.

His eyes, those deep, soulful, azure eyes, were directed heavenward- a clear, lucid gaze that ignored the chaos. A monstrous wave of destruction dressed in fire surrounded him and rolled over at each side, but his mind remained unbothered, preoccupied by something far more significant. His attention was towards the sky, more specifically the stars.

Garviel Locken was looking at the stars and was wondering about them, genuinely pondering over those small, distant lights dotted across the roll of black above him – as if wondering about stars was the single most important thing to do at that exact moment in time. He knew a bit about stars, he knew that most were dead, that the original flaming ball of gas sitting in space was gone and only its light remained, traveling through the empty darkness. Despite being technically dead and its original form non-existent, its light endured, determined to run until the very last atom of light fades against the inevitable and inescapable void.

He admired that unstoppable drive to endure, to try. Through the cold, unfriendly emptiness of space he was glad to know that in some way, somewhere, there was light.

At this point the terrible noise of this world began to muffle and quiet in his ears. All was silent but his breathing that thinned with each passing breath.The aches and pains of his dying body dulled and gave way to numbing cold; he made no attempt to fight it. And yet, through the numbness he felt the tip of his chapped, bleeding lips bend slightly upward to form something that resembled a smile.

A face aged and made old by millennia of war, violence, betrayal and pain was allowed to relish in the feeling of joy and peace – things Garviel Locken had been deprived of and had lost all hope of ever finding again. In his mind he said goodbye to the stars that had kept him company through these final, fleeting moments, slowly he closed his eyes, their light dimming to a blur and then darkness.

 * * *

Then Garviel Locken felt his face, and then his fingers, and then his toes, he felt his body was resting peacefully on a soft surface. Slowly he opened his eyes, after a few seconds the color of hazy grey cleared to reveal the distinctly smooth shine of a metallic ceiling. He pushed his body up and found that he was sitting on something familiar, something completely mundane and unsurprising: his own bed, in his in his own room.

To anyone else it would look like a cold, cramped, four-walled space with a bed and a sink, but to Garviel Locken this was his room, his space, his sink, and on the floor was his bucket were he kept an ugly little rag that he would use to polish his cream-white ceramite armor. All this he knew of course, but it was strange that for a moment he had to remind himself of these familiar little things, as if he had been away long enough to almost forget. Though that was impossible because this space, this ship, the Vengeful Spirit, was his home, and he could never forget his home.

He got up and stretched his arms and legs. He looked in the mirror and saw his face: a tan shade of beige painted over strong, deep features; little, white cuts over smooth, prominent cheeks. His thin lips rested under a long nose and clear, azure eyes delicately placed beneath a deep brow. The man in the reflection was him; he knew that, though seeing himself so clearly felt strange. 

As he would do every morning he hovered over the sink to wash his face. He did not expect the water to feel so clean, the blue cooled his skin and gently slid between his fingers, the sensation was a surprise.