In Gloria Immutatens by Conquering_Light

Sister Alicia discovers her true destiny on hallowed Terra, and much else besides... An evocative and terrifying first-hand view of one of the wonders of the Imperium, this is from Conquering_Light, one of the great writers at the Black Library forums. You can read his own thoughts on the piece at the end. 4,700 words Writing time : unknown Finished : unknown Download as Word file

The second sight was always with me.

I remember even from my earliest infancy, things that others do not recall from their beginnings: the dark red-and-orange warmth of my mother’s womb, the piercing cold and blinding light of my arrival in this mortal realm. I remember her first touch, the softness of her voice, and the deep, kind voice of my father as he took me in his arms for the first time. I could feel their joy and the warmth of their souls in a way that most people lose soon after their conscious minds develop; an attunement to the unseen that only the beasts and the newly born experience.

But it never went away, not for me.

I could always tell how others felt, and knew how they would react almost before they themselves did. Sometimes it frightened those I knew, but most believed I was simply a sensitive child who stopped to see what others did not. It would be arrogance to say so in other days, but I know that is what they believed in their hearts. I heard them in the depths of their minds, where they believed they were safe.

Not safe from everything. Perhaps once it was so, but not now. The Imperium of this forty-first millennium has its share of my kind.

They call us ‘psykers.’

Some of us are pressed into service in the Emperor’s armies, where we are taught to rain madness and thunder and death on the xenos, the mutant, and the damned. Others, the strong of will, born on the right world at the right place and the right time, are found by the Astartes, and they take them into the heavens with them. There they become Astartes in turn, and take the mantle of Librarian, facing down the greatest threats our troubled galaxy can send.

But most of us, when we are discovered, are named Hostia: 'Sacrifice.' And then, the great black fleets of the Ordo Hereticus come, and we are never seen again. No one knows where we go.

I do, though I will never live to tell any who knew me. I am dead already, mourned and gone to my family, my sisters of my Order, and all those who knew my name. I have vanished as though I never existed.

Once I was Sister Alicia, Novitiate of the Ordo Verbum Sanctum, of the chapter house of the Cathedral of Saint Macharius Light-bringer, in the city of Victoria Magna, capital of the fringe world Ultima Macharia in the far galactic west. It was there nearly a thousand years ago, that the blessed Lord Solar Macharius, general and saint and conqueror, planted his last standard for the Imperium, before he went off into the unknown, to claim all the universe entire for the Immortal God-Emperor, or die in the doing of it.

I was a student there, of history and theology, and I was happy. Now, my name is Prisoner SPHZ-M41-999-187-Psi Omicron. I am condemned as a psyker too dangerous to train or control, and I go now to my inevitable end, bound fast within the cells of an Inquisitorial vessel, with a hundred others like myself, gathered from all over the Imperium.

We go to the holy of holies, to blessed Terra itself, the ancient home of our race. For all but the tiniest fraction of the luckiest souls in all the wide Imperium, even seeing Terra from a distance is a blessing beyond all reckoning. But I and the others within the hold of this ship will walk its streets, and be brought to the gates of the Imperial Palace itself, seat of the Immortal Emperor Himself, and there we will live out the rest of our days.

For it is there that we will be sacrificed to sustain Him; there we will be bled of our life-force and souls until there is nothing left, all so that He may endure, even beyond death.

I was discovered at prayers. We sang the Mass of the Emperor’s Ascension, and it was on the final alleluia that the power that waited within my mind burst forth. My sisters and my Mother Superior wailed and died screaming as I soared in the heights of spiritual ecstasy, singing to a glorious vision of the God-Emperor that I alone could see: Wreathed in light and armored with gold, I was afraid His glory would consume my eyes and me. In His mighty right hand was a swift and fearsome sword, burning with the flames of His incandescent purity, and on the shining thunder-claw that armored his left, a great eagle with two heads, proud and noble beyond compare. His face was like bronze glowing in the furnace, and justice lived in His stern visage. The Immortal Emperor’s eyes shone like twin suns, piercing all darkness: the very image of Glorious Sol, Life-Giver of Holy Terra, before whom no shadow may endure.

As He reached out his hand for me, I awoke from my fervor, to see the awful price of my vision. My sisters dead, our Chapter House desecrated, the holy icons splashed with the blood of the righteous.

I didn’t bother to hide. What would the point have been? Where in all the galaxy can a loyal servant of the Emperor hide from His sight?

Why would they want to?

When the PDF came, and placed the psy-suppressor crown on my head, I did not resist.

When the Hereticus came and their mindless servitors stripped me and shaved off my hair, and their tech-priest put a jack in my neck, I did not resist.

When they locked me in force-shackles down here in the hold of the Arca Paenitentia, I did not resist.

To do so would have been death, and a waste of my last chance to serve my Emperor. I do not seek damnation. It would be a lie to say I would not return to my home if I could, but there is no choosing between the barrel of a lasgun and walking the golden streets of Holy Terra. To die there – that is a fate few would dream of, let alone dare to hope for.

And so now I ride the streets of the Earth, as it was called in ancient times. A hundred other Hostiae sit with me, crowned and chained, the rumble of the engines that bears us along lost in the hymns of our processional. Before us goes a cardinal and his acolytes, mitered and robed in red and gold, seals of purity hanging from every surface, his crozier bearing the sign of the Winged Skull.

A catechism, learned a lifetime ago, springs unbidden to my mind:

‘And why do we venerate the sign of the skull with wings? Why do we place it above our doors, and the Astartes wear its sign as they go into glorious battle?’

‘The Caput Alatus is an eternal reminder that death flies on swift wings to all enemies of the Immortal Emperor, and deliverance to His faithful. It is also a representation of His deathly Face, reminding us that none may hide from His omniscient sight.’

A hundred more catechism subjects sit, perched and engraved and incised and painted and illuminated on every surface, above and below . . .

‘The Gargoyle in Bondage is a sign that not even the unclean denizens of the Warp may defy the God-Emperor, and must bow in ultimate deference to His inexorable Will.’

‘The Sacred Aquila is a symbol of human might since time immemorial. It is the Emperor’s sigil and symbol, above all others. Its left head is called Potestas, and it represents the Emperor’s might, His inexhaustible armies, and His own incontestable power. Its right head is named Autocritas, and it represents His incontestable right to rule the galaxy, borne of His divinity as God of the human race.’

‘The Martyr Attended by the Delivering Angel is a sign that the Emperor will never reject those who cleave to Him, and that His vengeance and might await those who would harm His own.’

They rush by in a stream of holy words, and we turn onto the main thoroughfare to the Palace, the Via Heroica – the Way of Heroes. Pilgrims and priests and an unending stream of the faithful line the way, singing hymns of praise, some hailing us as living sacrifices, others cursing us as mutants and worse, while high above, a silent honor guard of the Imperium’s greatest watch from their Macraggian granite pedestals…

Saints and soldiers, crusaders and martyrs, eternal and unchanging in ceramite, icons of faith and triumph and sacrifice – were they ever afraid? Did they waver in their faith? Was there a time for Saint Alicia Dominica, my namesake, or Macharius Light-bringer, whose church I prayed in, when they believed the Emperor had abandoned them? Did lines of doubt or worry ever break those stern and serene faces in life?

Or perhaps that is why they watch in eternal glory over the way to the Emperor’s seat, and we march like grox to the slaughter? If I had enough faith, would I have been spared this fate? Did I fail my Emperor? When? What have I done? Is it because I could not, or rather, did not stop in my devotions, which caused the forces that waited in my head to erupt?

Did my Sisters die because I was too selfish to stop in my adoration of the Emperor?

How can desiring communion with one’s god, and not wanting that communion to end, be selfish?

I shake my head, and somewhere deep in the echoing spaces of my suppressor-crown I hear a laugh, a very tired laugh. It takes a minute before I realize it is my own.

These thoughts are all foolish. I am what I am, and I could no more have prevented being born this way than I could have prevented being born at all. We are all doomed to die from the moment we enter this mortal realm, and our fates are fixed long before our lives begin. I was always to be a psyker; I will count myself fortunate that if I must die for an accident of my birth, my death will not be in vain.

The Via turns out to be shorter than I imagined, and soon we step from our vehicles and onto the Plaza Imperialis, which stretches before the looming gates of the Palace itself. We walk for what seems like miles through corridor after corridor – each one covered with a thousand times a thousand relics and treasures from ten thousand years of rule and triumph and tragedy. Next to the sword of Saint Celestine sits a finger of the blessed Januarius, whose preaching, they say, brought eight worlds to the Emperor’s light. On and on they roll, an infinite legion of those who gave their all for His great design, faithful even unto death…

And soon we have passed all that, and only one room remains. The Last Road, and at the far end –
The Eternity Gate, the way to the Golden Throne and the forever lord of the Imperium.

Banners of every shape and hue line the walls – culled from the most glorious victories, heroic deaths, and holiest crusades from across the million worlds of this galaxy that we claim as our own. They hang, faded and in tatters, but lovingly preserved for all that, swinging gently in the wind of our passing like ghosts laid to rest, still watching but fading away. From somewhere high in the vast cathedral ceiling, among the buttresses, vox-boxes sing out eternal hymns of praise, floating down from the heavens.

But higher still, uplit and glorified, the very greatest the Imperium has ever known watch down over us, each and every one a saint at least, and some who could be called gods in their own right.

Sebastian Thor, clad in the simple robes of the pilgrim, book and sword in hand.

My own Lord Solar Macharius, golden armor gleaming, the Emperor’s own Laurus Triumphalis adorning his helm.

Alicia Dominica, kneeling in prayer before the Golden Throne itself.

And closer in, the great Primarchs, His own gene-sons, born of Luna. Roboute Gulliman of the Ultramarines, the great law-giver, his Codex Astartes in hand, the traitor Alpharius crushed under his feet. Leman Russ, the Great Wolf, howling his victory over the toppled, burning towers of Prospero. Jaghatai Khan of the White Scars, riding a great horse of flame across the starry deeps, pursuing the vile xenos into the Empyrean. On the right and left of the holy portal, Sanguinus, the Bleeding Angel, arises in splendor, beautiful and terrible to behold, and stalwart Rogal Dorn, sword in hand, face defiant and hard.

Towering at the far end, the height of the ceiling and more, the Eternity Gate itself. Wrought of iron, brass, bronze, gold, silver, and every other metal to be found on this holy home of our race, it depicts the Emperor Triumphant, His light driving back all shadow, spear piercing the Serpent of Corruption as He treads it down. Angels attend and adore Him.

And inscribed on a plate of lead in letters as tall as four men standing on one another’s shoulders, these words:

HIC MANENS IN GLORIA IMMUTATENS USQUE AD OMNIS FINIS.

Here He remains in glory undimmed, until the ending of all things.

++++++ PART TWO. ++++++

They stop us then, and the cardinal moves toward the Gate. My heart pounds – will they actually deem us worthy to open it? For a moment I feel the ecstasy that condemned me back on Ultima Macharia, and the suppressor-crown silences it. Flanked by the golden-armored Custodes – by all that is holy, His own guardians here and in the flesh – each a towering icon of duty, the cardinal bids us stand, and addresses us.

His voice is hurried but not unkind, speaks the words of the Extreme Unction, blessing us in the name of the Emperor, telling us we go to meet Him soon. Most of the words go by in a fog, and I feel the tiniest speck of sadness that I am receiving my last rites before the Eternity Gate, yet am unmoved. This place is how my faith describes the veil between the world of the living and the righteous dead. Before me literally stands the way to Paradise.

I feel nothing.

And so I follow his orders, moving where the acolytes direct. We form a line, each kneeling in turn to receive the anointing and the shriving that the arch-priest offers. Soon it is my turn, and I kneel before him. He is surprisingly short, and holds his arms straight out to place them on my brow in the sign of the Aquila, and begins to pray.

‘...Deus et Imperator exaudi orationem meam; ad te omnis fidelis caro veniet,’ he finishes, and bids me rise.

‘…God and Emperor, hear my prayer; to Thee all faithful flesh shall turn.’

The words that every member of our faith hears at their end. But for such as we, they are fitting words indeed.
Soon the confessions are over, and it is time to continue on. We are marched from the Last Road. I watch the way to the Emperor, the door so close I could run and touch it, fade behind me, lost in a sea of banners and paeans of adoration ring in my ears as I leave it behind.

I would scream until I had no breath left, if only I could remember how. The crown hums quietly.

For what seems like an eternity we are herded into lifts and descend ever deeper into the bowels of the Palace.

When we emerge, we are in a mammoth cavern of machinery, dark and noisome, foul with the stench of lubricants and sickly-sweet with incense – how can His holiest place hold something so foul? Priests of the Machine God walk everywhere, chanting and anointing and calibrating.

Perhaps they imagine this as paradise. To me it is hateful enough to provoke another quieting from the crown I wear; another device they built to blind me to the fact that they have taken me from Him. But in the end, the Omnissiah, not the Emperor, has the mastery, and I march with the others to our destination. A great hall, filled with sarcophagi, each covered in prayer scrolls, dials and rune-panels, and cables and conduits which snake into the floor.

One by one, they take us and place us in the coffins. When it is my turn I do not struggle; the machine spirit of my crown amplifies its control, and I move as if uncaring to my final resting place. They lay me in it, and the attending tech-priest blesses the device, praying to the machine to hold me in its care until I have reached my end.

The last human, if he can be called that still, who ever sees me alive, regards me as a machine component, rather than a human being. Where is the Emperor? Who will deliver me from this, if not He and His righteous servants?

Where is my Delivering Angel?

The lid is sealed, and my tomb is closed. I feel the needle interface with the jack in my neck, and everything goes dark . . .

And when I awake, I have gone from that place, and I stand before the Eternity Gate once more.

How can this be? Once more I wear the robes of my Order! My hair is restored, and my flesh is whole! I am as I once was - whole again!

The Emperor has not forgotten me!

Once more I walk the long march to the Throne’s doors, this time alone. When I arrive, the way is abandoned; the Custodes are gone. With the lightest touch of my fingers, the colossal doors swing open. But there is no blazing light, no choir of seraphim or joyous shouts of the faithful to welcome me to the Emperor’s side. That was what I was taught, and that was what I believed awaited me.

What is this place? Where have I gone?

Instead, there is only darkness beyond compare, deep and silent as the time before the birth of the stars. Two parallel lines of pale blue light stretch off into the distance, and nearly out of sight, far away, a single bright point of white. There is nothing else. There is no one else, here in this place between life and death. I turn to look back, but the great Gate slams shut . . .

In the miracle stories, the Emperor always sends an angel to guide the heroes: when the Marianites set off from their ruined hive into the ash wastes of Vastitas Prime, Saint Parzival the Defiant prayed to the Emperor, and He sent an angel in the form of a great pillar of fire, who guided them to their new land across the dried Sea of Gurgis.

But I know in my heart that there are no angels in this place, and there are none who fly to deliver me.

I set off then, and as I walk along, I think I see for just a moment the shadows of footprints, faintly lit by the borders of the path. It is a sight that would cheer me, but again, somehow I know that all who have come this way have come alone, and it has been long indeed since anyone walked here. The only sound is the quiet pad of my sandals and the clicking of the prayer beads hanging from my belt.

Hours, and then days seem to pass. I do not tire, nor do I weaken. My pace does not flag, and my sinews do not fail. Yet I feel a great weariness, as though I will walk here forever, condemned to an eternity of wandering, here in the soundless deep where nothing lives. The light in the distance grows no closer for all my toil, and its faint radiance is cold indeed.

O Holy One, were all my prayers and absolutions in vain? Have You cast me aside? Where did I fail? How could I have silenced the power in my head? What else did You desire that I did not do?

And suddenly, I see it.

It is as though I have crested a great hill or cliff; for suddenly the path leads to a great pyramid with stairs that climb to its summit, where a searing beam of white light blasts forever upwards. Hope arises anew, and I begin to climb.

The stairs are broad and easy, but as they climb higher and higher, they grow more narrow and steep. I still do not grow tired, but at the end it is nearly a vertical scrabble, and I reach the apex by force of will, for surely no one could climb this with their arms alone. It becomes a thing all but impossible to accomplish . . .

But I struggle on, and driven to my hands and knees, I arrive at the top of the great ziggurat. Unwearied but somehow still gasping for breath, I finally stand and behold:

Here is a mighty throne, taller than two Baneblade tanks piled atop one another. And in it sits a shape cloaked in shadow, silent and still. Its head is haloed with white light - the star I saw shining in the distance, but its face remains hidden…

Is it really Him?

Do I stand before the Emperor?

Why does He not speak?

The thought that I may be standing at the feet of my God, staring up at Him without veneration or respect, runs up my spine. I drop to my hands and knees, and try to keep my voice steady:

‘Holy One, I have come. I have seen Thy face, and I will remain here and be content.’

I stay for a time that I do not bother to measure, waiting for Him. No one commands the God-Emperor: He has an uncounted multitude to watch over.

I am nearly lost in thought when I hear a sound like burning pine needles, or someone tearing an ancient parchment. It continues on and on, and I break my reverie . . .

He is moving.

++++++ PART THREE. ++++++

I can see clearly now.

The terrible figure above me cannot be the Emperor. He must not be the Emperor.

A shriveled husk, an ancient corpse, sits the throne before me. Its eyes stare emptily, yet somehow I know they see more than I could imagine. The nose is long since gone, the lips drawn back away from the teeth, locking its expression somewhere between a grimace of agony and the pitiless grin of a death’s-head. The corona of bright light shines around its awful countenance like a blasphemous parody, like the halo of a saint given to a daemon of Chaos to wear . . .

The body is shriveled and desiccated, a skeleton with the barest covering of withered flesh stretched tightly over it. Here and there, bones blackened with age show through the flaking meat that is the dead giant’s raiment. Surely this creature would fall to dust at the slightest stirring of the wind.

But by Macharius’ eyes – he reaches for me!

I cannot move, frozen with terror. I must go! This is the other world – death and damnation in this place is the end, with no hope of salvation!

RUN! RUN!

But is that not the Emperor? Who else could possibly be waiting here? Who would sit a great throne beyond the Eternity Gate if not He?

No! This is not possible!

As my mind screams at itself, raging against my body to move, a skeletal hand big enough to pulp a Space Marine envelops me, and then . . . urges, too primal to even be words pound in my mind like falling meteors:

HUNGER.

THIRST.

ENDURE.

Mercy! Mercy, Holy One! I am your true daughter and servant!

HUNGER.

THIRST.

ENDURE.

I can feel the terrible burning of this creature’s greed now – I feel it in myself! It is like hanging by one hand from a cliff – I want to let go and end the racking pain, but I cannot! I must continue! There must be a way!

I must not let go. If there is any way that I might endure, I must take hold of it. There is nothing left now, nothing save the terrible instinct to remain in the face of my end, and if a thousand times a thousand must end that I might live, so be it!

HUNGER.

THIRST.

ENDURE.

Let me go! Do not do this! I have only ever served You!

Fingers that might be of adamant and ceramite lock around me, pinning my body completely . . .

TRAPPED.

PRISON.

FOREVER.

I am imprisoned in this terrible thing’s grasp. No one is coming. No one will help. No one can hear. The terrible knowledge that my end will come in this vile limbo weighs upon me, as though I hold a hive upon my back. I have no strength to breathe, nor speak, nor even scream.

There is no reason to.

There is no one else in this place.

TRAPPED.

PRISON.

FOREVER.

I am Your child! Why are You doing this to me? Release me, Lord, and I will serve You until the end of days!

And then, I feel the hand that pinions me begin to rise. Higher and higher I ascend, and then . . . the fingers are opening? I am looking down into the face of the corpse-being that sits the throne, the light of its corona nearly blinding.

And then it lets me go.

Falling . . . falling so fast . . . what in Terra’s name?

Macharius defend me! His mouth is opening!

A rush of wind surges up to greet me, smelling of formaldehyde and dust. I hear the chain of my prayer beads snap and blow away from me. The Emperor’s terrible, empty eyes stare at me, while His mouth yawns wide . . .
And then I am devoured. The darkness closes in, and I hurtle downward into Him.

I scream now.

++++++ PART FOUR. ++++++

The wind roars and howls in my ears, though whether it blows from anywhere or is the ragged vestiges of the Emperor’s true voice is impossible to say. It drowns out my screams, and as the darkness swallows me up, I see still other things…

Pride wells within me as I look upon a great fortress of granite, hung with banners of azure and argent, so pure as to match the sky and the clouds above…

Anger, as I stand in a great longhouse of timber, enduring the mocking laughter of bearded ruffians in the guttering, smoky light of torches…

Determination, as Terra hoves into view and my ship returns me to the purpose at hand…

A sick knot of ice clenches in my stomach as a messenger tells me of the treachery of my sons, and I wonder where I failed…

Pride, as only a father can know, as the Angel and the Praetorian prepare to follow me to the end…

A great yawning gulf of agony and disbelief at seeing the Angel broken and lifeless, and my Firstborn’s once-noble voice baying its blasphemies…

Sick dread as I entreat him, begging my son to stop the madness he has unleashed in himself…

I steel myself for the end, and gather my strength to crush him, that others might live…

I watch him as he burns and fades away. The darkness draws in tighter…

Strong hands lift me, a voice raw with weeping and rage pleading with me…

Before I am sealed away, I see a great gate being lifted into place. There are words upon it, but they are too dim to make out. They are beautifully and cunningly wrought. My last thoughts before they close the chamber are of what the words might say, and what is on the other side of the gate.

And then there is nothing.


‘…Has the Omnissiah favored our efforts, Lord Magos?’

‘It has indeed. The supplicant is singing and whole. The Emperor is sustained by this sacrifice.’

‘Praise unto Him, and unto the God of all Machines.’

‘Indeed. Now, let us be about our work, my son. There are many cells left to fill, for the Emperor’s hunger is always great.

’HIC MANENS IN GLORIA IMMUTATENS USQUE AD OMNIS FINIS

HERE HE REMAINS, IN GLORY UNDIMMED, UNTIL THE ENDING OF ALL THINGS

FINIS

Comment & Links

Comments by the author Conquering_Light: "I do think the Emperor is much more than a shriveled husk, being a fan of the Star Child theory. However, it's the husk that gets fed and powers the Astronomicon, and it's said that those who are sacrificed are devoured, not taken into an afterlife. Hence Alicia's somewhat downbeat fate, but who knows what became of her afterward? Perhaps the Star Child and the remaining flesh aren't so far apart. The Warp is a big place, after all, and surely all those faithful Imperial souls that go to their deaths in such massive numbers are having some effect on it... In any case, this is what I think the shreds of consciousness that remain to the Emperor's body are like. Hope you enjoyed this; comments are always welcome here or back at the BL forums." You are welcome to add your comment on this story here or:- at the Black Library fiction forum Note you will need an account to post at this site.