Perpetual's Twilight

The Veiled Man stared out into the universe, sitting at the very edge of the galaxy. He had his back turned on every star and every planet in it, every living and dead thing was out of his view for this moment.

The object on which he rested, at the very edge of the galaxy, was a comet of no importance. It was passing by, changing trajectory and gaining speed in the gravity wells of the Milky Way for a few millennia until it reached the edge again and vanished into the darkness. It would not be long until this ball of rock and metal flung itself around one last star, just to never be seen again in this galaxy.

Just like every living being, just a passer-by. Here, alive, for but a moment, and gone in the next. Individually unique, tough, unimportant. Collectively, the very reason for the cosmos to exist. Those small wonders of a child’s first cry, and a comet’s first entry into the galaxy. Unique moments, in a system that should not create such whimsy, but did so anyway.

The Veiled Man remembered a time when he too was such a fleeting thing. Back when he too had been afraid of vanishing in the dark. Now he came to places like this comet to once more feel this dread and let it comfort him. Out there, where other galaxies wrote their own histories, as rich and meaningful as this one. All of them, grains of sand in an ocean so vast, even his mind, so connected with the powers that form the cosmos, refused to comprehend it. For him, it was respite. Just a few moments of feeling like he had felt when he had walked Earth as a mortal. The remembrance of how it felt before he became friends with Death.

He dreamt here, of the life he had led. Difficult and painful for a mortal. It felt laughable to him, now, which is why he came to places such as this comet. He did not want to allow himself to forget the plight of mortals. He liked to remember the perspective of fear and uncertainty. It gave him patience, mercy, empathy. In truth, his dread was a rich field on which he could grow love. All would be gone, and all would be dark, in the end. He wanted to know that he had loved and cared until that very last moment when the galaxy would devour itself, and the death of the cosmos closed in just one more step further.

“Harry,”

The Veiled Man grinned. Should he ever forget, his angels would never use another name than his first one. He turned, back towards the galaxy, and his sorrows. Even from here he could see the Eye of Terror. Somewhere behind it was Holy Terra, from where he had heard a wail of such agony, it had shaken him to the bone. How cruel it was that he was to wait until Labrys reached his own conclusion; until the Emperor admitted defeat. However, he would never break a promise to his dear friend. All he had allowed himself, was a short comment. It was meant to be reassuring. He was unsure how he felt about the sarcasm in it, which he hadn’t been able to suppress.

“This guy needed 40.000 and then some years to figure it out. He is very much the definition of intelligence without wisdom.” Harry said to his angel before him.

The figure was so dark, it even produced a silhouette against the black of space as it stood in the shadow of the galaxy. Wild, shoulder-long black hair, a roguish grin and two smiling, fully black eyes. Black wings, a robe seeming like black smoke, and an iron halberd made in the cores of stars marked him as an Archangel of Death. One of many Ferrymen. He was surrounded by his two Omens - black hounds that heralded coming demise. Two Grims and their master.

“Oh? So it is finally time?” The archangel Sirius asked his master and godson. “Not why I’m here, tough. The stinky one asks for a chat. He said he has prepared your favourite.”

“How kind of him.” Harry stood from his resting place, and stretched his body, out of habit than any real effect. “While I have this conversation, could you rally the troops? I think I’ve lost count of some.”

“They’re being brought into real space with incredible speed, so I’m not surprised.” Sirius nudged him playfully. It wasn’t like the magicals really needed a lot of oversight, so put into a safe little incubator for their civilization. Some of his archangels oversaw them, but there weren’t many times when he needed to interfere. One or two people who had found out about horcrux, again, but that was about the worst.

“How is the academy coming along?” Harry asked by the way, as he prepared to enter the Warp. “We’re about to have new arrivals, if this is truly the time we have waited for.”

“Well, I would say.  But Hermione still doesn’t entirely understand why you summoned her and not Minerva or Albus to lead it.”

Harry frowned. Wasn’t it obvious? “Well, I didn’t want Minerva or Albus around. Hermione is one of my best friends, of course I want her to be by my side, once more. If she wants back to the Beyond, all she needs to do is say so.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sirius allayed him. “She loves the job, I think. She just wonders why.”

“If you see her before I do, tell her, I figured she may remember how it feels to enter the magical world better than most. She’ll have to use that sort of empathy a lot in the coming millennia.” Harry spoke with the sadness of foresight. They had planned for their hope of a peaceful embrace of their long-lost brothers and sisters. Ever since the magicals and he, himself, had been woken from their long dream in Limbo, Harry had watched what Labrys’ work had come to.

To say he was not impressed was an understatement of cosmic proportions. Truly, Harry felt devastated. He had watched from Limbo, from the Warp and from the shadows, never interfering and not truly understanding. Death held them in a realm beyond the real, and information was sparse. He saw horrors unfold, but what else was new with humanity? However, now that he had roamed the Real and the Warp for a few years, he had come to a few damning conclusions. The way things stood, the galaxy would revert to a state of beasts and animals. One more failed experiment in the cosmos. Harry was determined to have it be not so.

He was unsure about the details. Many of his angels were sent to investigate, and only few have returned to him, yet. Fifteen years were not even enough time to get to know your galactic neighbourhood. However, even the few who had reported, spoke of the Emperor of Mankind. What a pretentious name for a farmer boy from Anatolia who ought to know better by now than to play King.

His awakening back into the Real and the Warp has also alerted powers of Chaos to his continued existence. The Warp had shivered in fear, when the Herald of Death had returned. He didn’t like most of them, except the god Sirius called the “Stinky One”. Nurgle was reasonable. His domain was not one of egocentric indulgence. It was just Decay. The most essential, naturalistic form of Life and Death. The underlying craft to Harry’s work of Art. In many ways, Harry saw Nurgle as a colleague. But where the Veiled Man sought to protect life and fill it with meaning, the Plaguefather found great pleasure in his endeavour to devour it, as the cycle of life demands. The divine versus the mundane.

They were two sides of the same coin, which is why he even entertained the request for a chat. Khorne, Tzeentch and that new one knew better than to even ask. Not that they were to blame for their nature and convictions. They were but a reflection of the very galaxy that birthed them, as aggressive and destructive as the real space demanded of its mirror image. Still, those three just got on his nerves. They had a sort of pretension about them that Nurgle lacked.

“I’ll tell her. I will return to Hecate and gather the angels and archmages. It would be nice if you show yourself as well. Don’t get caught up in philosophical debates with the old man, again.”

“Of course, I will. I won’t miss the Awakeningl. Can you imagine what a firework that is going to be?” Harry cheered. He was looking forward to lifting the curse on what has come to be known as the Black Reef among non-magical mankind. To the magicals, it was sanctuary. Fourty-thousand years of living in peace, separated from the Real by only the thinnest layer; a dimension between the dimensions. The outside of it, tough, was a violent, chaotic realm of gravitational maelstroms and unpredictable surges of energy, caused by the curse laid upon it by Death itself.

“I’ll take that as a promise, then. Again, don’t let the Stinky One distract you.”

“Alright, alright.” Harry waved off, and vanished behind the veil of reality, into the Warp.

_____________

“Oi! Nurgle, you old plague-spot. You wanted to talk?”

“Aah, the Herald hath come. Hide your daughters, everyone.”

Harry emerged in what seemed like a kitchen made of rotting bones and flesh, bulbous growths on writhing walls made of skin and muscle. Green ooze dropped from the ceiling, down to a grime and filth covered floor.

Had it not been for the decor, it would have been a cozy room. The cauldron in the middle bubbled with a lime-green substance that smelled like bile and infected wounds, feasting maggots and growing mushrooms on an old fallen tree. Behind it stood a mass of flesh, rotting and bloating with every disease imaginable. The fat mass of a body decayed and renewed itself in a never-ending cycle, and on top of it a broad maw of jagged teeth grinned at Harry.

“None of your daughters are in any danger, I assure you.” Harry’s felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Last time he had been here, he had seen one of Nurgle’s devotees. One of his “daughters”. He was the herald of death, but the rot-ridden husk of a mortal that had served them, had haunted his thoughts for a while after.

“I thought you gentle types looked for the beauty within?” Nurgle laughed.

“Some aesthetics can’t be ignored.” Harry looked for a seat that at least didn’t seem to twitch like it was in its last moments and leaned back on it. This time one of Nurgle’s small imps, a Nurgling, if he remembered correctly, served him a drink.

The liquid bubbled and swirled in a frantic dance. Harry took a small sip, and grinned at the taste. “Oh, Malaria, how thoughtful.”

“I knew you would appreciate a taste of home.” Nurgle kept stirring his brew, and with every turn of his spoon, the brew became a brighter green than before. “I added a hint of rabies, for the spice.”

“Mmmh, yes, very aggressive flavour once it reaches the throat. I like it.”

“You have the palette for it. That is why I appreciate your visits.” Nurgle nodded to Harry, one harbinger of Death to another. “However, I have not asked you to come over to show you my hospitality.”

“I figured. What is on your mind, grandpa?”

“You heard him, didn’t you? Wailing from his throne, like the petulant child he is. Bemoaning his fate, as if he hadn’t conjured it himself. What do you make of it?”

“Prophecies spoke of it. The god born of the blood of martyrs, alone in his despair.” Harry took another sip of his tea, looking over to the very god of despair. It really was an interesting brew. “He may yet join your ranks. He may yet be your demise. What I know is that the state he is in makes the first much more likely than the latter.”

“What of your friend? Where does he stand?”

“Death? He stands with no one, you know that. All will meet him, in the end. Even you and me.”

Nurgle took his spoon up to his maw, and surprisingly delicate, took a taste of his brew. “Hmm. Lacks inflammation. Maybe some flesh eating bacteria?” he talked to himself, before once more starting to stir and focusing on Harry. “Well, he stands with you, at least. His beloved herald. There is a reason why I cannot touch your kin; why my plagues don’t even give you wizarding folk a light sniffle. He does not permit it, only allowing for childish imitations. Dragonpox. Pah! Lycanthropy Blegh!”

“They still live and die, are born and then spend the next century decaying.”

“Sure, but it’s a matter of principle.” Nurgle grumbled and stirred a bit more intensely than necessary.

“We had this discussion, tough.”

“Indeed, we did. I find myself dissatisfied with its conclusion, still. Because, you see, I like the Great Game. I want to keep playing. Your kin coming means that an end is close.”

“Not an end. Change. In an uncaring galaxy, you folk became uncaring gods. Change the nature of the galaxy, and you change the nature of the gods. Do you remember? Back when the first things crawled, and all you were was a home-maker, birth giver, life creator?”

Nurgle grumbled again, and made a show of paying full attention to his brew. Harry knew that none of them liked being reminded of a calmer galaxy. Just like those souls that feed them with their fears and wants, they became addicted to destruction and hatred. Their worst characteristics were allowed to take centre stage, and their best were relegated into the obscure. “I remember,” he finally admitted. “I also remember my awakening. Wretched humans, unwashed masses on shit covered streets. Terra was once so beautiful. There has been a time, while you were gone, when I thought they had me beat. I was lucky. In their zeal, they destroyed their own artificial children, and the cataclysm that followed sent them right back into the dirt; back to me.”

“What time are you talking about?”

“They call it the Dark Age of Technology. A misnomer if there ever was one. They had created machines more powerful than even us. They dictated their terms to the entities of the Warp.” Nurgle chuckled, with that wet sounding laugh, and his tongue falling out of his maw, down to the floor. “But you have yet to answer my question. What do you make of the wails of the Corpse God?”

Harry sighed. He mulled over his answer, while sipping on his diseased tea. The Malaria still tasted great, but the rabies aftertaste got old, quick. “I am glad for my Awakening, that I know for sure. I am glad that my kin is allowed all these advantages, and to rejoin the galaxy. I cheer for the fact that we two need not be enemies, brother. We are immune to your brews, and you are still revered among my kind, though under a different name.” Harry stopped, and took a good look at Nurgle. The writhing mass of flesh, the evil grin of an evil god had nothing to do with the depiction of growth and fertility at the shrines of their forests. It saddened him. “I hope that at the end their worship can convince you. Convince you, Mother, to come back to them.”

Nurgle frowned, and stirred his brew with such great force that some of it spilled over, and ate its way into the floor. “I missed them.” he admitted, after a little while. “Thank you for the answer.”

“They missed you too, Gaia. They missed you too.”