Two Perpetuals
Death comes for us all. May you be a singular cell, or emperor, one day you will meet him. You may struggle. You may try and fend him off. You will plead and beg, scream your rage into this dark night, whisper your prayer to deaf gods, and yet, here you are, dying.
Few among the trillions of souls; not even a handful, will embrace his grasp, knowing they will be born again. Perpetuals find themselves turned away at the pearly gates, for their presence in the material realm is vital for its existence. Beacons of energies far beyond the comprehension of mere mortals are they. Guides, prophets or even gods.
Indeed, among the trillions upon trillions of souls that call the Milky Way galaxy their home, there are but a handful. Which makes the fact that two of them were sitting together in a café overlooking the Atlantic Ocean all the more improbable.
One of them held a tablet on which hundreds of dots and notifications begged for the attention of its owner. The man was tall, with black hair and mediterranean skin. He was clad in a uniform, five stars on his shoulder marking him as a general. He stood on the deck of the café, with its wood marred by bullet-holes and burn marks caused by bombs and grenades.
He looked up at the sky, where a dragon was chased through the clouds by two fighter jets. They unleashed their guns on it, and the beast fell into the ocean, just like hundreds before it. The war against the wizards was won, the wizards just didn’t know it, yet. They were still hiding among the corpses of their cultures, but little by little, their magic failed against his powers.
He grieved for the wonder and whimsy he was exterminating from the world. However, he was sure that the purity of mankind was what would save them in the end. Homo sapiens must be allowed to thrive. Homo magus was a mutation that had shown itself to be a cancerous growth, halting progress, or even stirring up conflict, all in the name of their Secrecy. In his life, he had attempted to steer them towards a world shared with their brothers, untouched by the powers from beyond. He had been a teacher, a scholar, and an arbiter of reason. Yet, the wizards were incapable of accepting his reasoning, choosing to remain secret, and continuing the cycle endlessly.
“Mister Grindelwald,” the man heard behind him. He turned, but there was nothing but the bombed out husk of the café. He had waited for the Veiled Man to show himself. Whenever souls left for the life beyond, he wasn’t far.
“I am not known by this name, any more.” he said to the Veiled Man.
“Which one would you prefer? Odin? Seems fitting, as we watch Ragnaroek unfold.”
“The prophecy was clear.”
“Yes. The wolf that tears you apart because it was shackled, now seeks revenge for the very shackles you laid on it.” Finally, he saw him. Covered in cloth that seemed like smoke, black and flowing in the wind, with a staff of twisted wood with a simple black quartz at the end, in which a rune - a lightning bolt was carved. His face was covered in that which gave him his name. It was a torn veil, layered and seemingly made from fabric meant for a different use. His voice was cold, yet familiar. It was like a long forgotten promise, or a threat that never left your mind. Death.
“You are a fool, Odin. So lost in your ways. Devoid of the capability to seek change within you. Do you think yourself infallible?”
“Of course, not. But I must…”
“You must nothing, not even embrace my friend. How long have you tried to steer them? Five-thousand years? Ten thousand? From the day you showed them how to work the field, to now, what have you truly changed?”
“What has changed? Do you not have eyes, Veiled One? Look at their capability.”
“Yes, truly impressive what apes can do, given the powers of gods. Yet, apes, they remain.”
“I have grown tired of your cynicism, herald of Death. But what else is to be expected by one as you?” The general scoffed. He used his body to tower over this lean man, on which cloth hung as if he himself were but bones. However, he knew well the power of this one, and understood that he wielded powers comparable with his own.
“No cynicism. The knowledge of hindsight.” The Veiled Man didn’t move. He remained standing like a statue, unmovable by even the greatest forces. He was Death, his champion and herald, omen and final swing of the blade. Allie, sometimes, but an opponent in their discussions, always. The Veiled Man sighed, leaving a gust of smoke in the hot air with his cold breath. “I have been sent to inform you that your mission will not be brought to completion. The magicals of Earth will remain living, by decree of the powers that be, somewhere else. You are now sentenced to fend for yourselves. Heed my warning. Three have awakened, one still slumbers. The fifth I may look upon right now, yet the threads of Fate have yet to determine the path. You will find many crossroads ahead. Decisions between violence and mercy, friendship and rivalry. Open your heart to the strangers, the misguided, and malformed, or you will be known only by the mountain of corpses on which you will build your gilded throne.” The Veiled Man laid his hand on his chest. His touch was soft, and it filled him with a sense of calm. There was reassurance in the Veiled Man’s touch. The hood of his black cloak shifted slightly back, and piercing green eyes met his own. “Choose wisely, Labrys of Anatolia. You were a fool to think to guide them, yet guide them you must, now. With the magicals gone, you are the last one. The last shaman.”
“If you want to intimidate me,...” he spoke, but the Veiled Man was gone in the time it had taken him to blink. He looked down on his tablet, and found the red dots vanishing, one by one, until all that was left was an Earth free of magic. It was done. They were gone, and mankind was free. He had expected to find more joy in this. The words of the Veiled Man rang in his ears; in his mind. He had made mistakes in the past, and even tough this war was made of his utter conviction, he felt doubt. Had he missed something? No. No, he was sure that his plans and convictions, his ideals and hopes for mankind were the path to final victory; to Elysium.
So he remembered. It was there, in the ruins of a french café, that he had heard the warning. The memory tortured him. France was a concept a thousand times forgotten. Earth was a husk of its former splendour. He had destroyed it all. His hubris, his plans and hopes, were made nightmares for those who had the luxury of dying.
Labrys. That was once his name. The first ever given to him. The name that stated that he was someone’s son. Born to a woman and a man, who knew nothing but love for him, in a world that was ruled by violence.
He remembered it, as he watched his son - the abomination he had created - beg for his guidance. Didn’t he see? What guidance was he expecting? What salvation did he hope to find in this place? What he could reveal was but his own pain, and the agony of his memories, for he was even below the lowest of his subjects. Each Servitor in this imperium of man he had created, was buried and forgotten when he seized to function. Not him.
Here he was, and all of these zealots denied him the sweet release of Death. So pure of duty and honour. So deeply misguided. Thousands upon thousands they sacrificed, to keep him alive, as if he would ever again operate the switch they all hoped he would pull. Their wails and prayers, their hymns and battle cries, were the only music he heard.
His son begged him, and he could barely hear him through the million of voices, begging him to save them. He had nothing more to offer them. His mind a beacon in the Warp, and his body a symbol, his name reduced to a title, and nothing left of Labrys of Anatolia.
“Father!” this creature shouted, and he felt love and hatred in equal measure for it. This monster amongst monsters was symbol of his own cursed zeal. This demigod amongst men was his pride and joy. He loved it. He hated him. “Begone!” he wanted to shout. “Please stay!” he cried in his mind, so fragmented by four fiends tearing at it from all sides. “I must be in solitude. I am so alone.”
The demigod cried. He knelt before him, praying to him; worshipping him, even when he was the one so dutiful in his attempt to repair what his father had failed to built right in the first place. His Grand Plan was in ruins. His ambitions have led to cataclysm beyond comprehension. The small demigod wanted help? He would find none here.
Here was a palace of the Neverdying, the Neverlearning, the one who would never fight again, and the one who would never love again. Cursed abomination. False hope. Corpse God.
Here was the throne of a dying light, and although they brought fuel to ward off the inevitable, the glimmer - that mere firefly in the raging storm - faded, swallowed by the dark.
The enemy was legion, and their hopes a blurred dream. He thought back to the day, when the Veiled Man vanished, and his wail shook the very foundation of the galaxy. The Warp was filled with the sound of his cries, the melancholy of an entire people bursting forth from deep below the surface of the Realm beyond. It shook the four, and terrified the Lesser Ones, and reminded the Betrayers that he was not gone.
His son. “Guilliman,” he tried to whisper, but all that came forth was concepts, and emotions, assailing the poor little monster kneeling at his golden throne.
“Forgive me.” he wanted to say to him. “Help me,” he wanted to beg him.
“Took you long enough,” he heard the Veiled Man’s voice in the Warp.