A lone Word Bearer stumbled along the dead landscape. There was no rot nor disease, no battle nor blood, no lies nor change, no emotion nor pain, only death, dust, and darkness. The sky shifting from colors known and unknown, constant contradictions.
The Word Bearer's armor was a blood red, with knightly silver outlines. His horned helmet like a skull, with black soulless eyes. Scriptures hung from his waist covering his legs. He held a bolter in hand, waving it around in a panic.
The Word Bearer was afraid of the moving shadows, for after years in this hellscape, they learned to fear the Raven in the Dark. The gaze of the one who would be called heretic shifted uncomfortably upon the repeating desert.
For his centuries wandering the Warp with his brother, he has never seen this place before, nor has he been without his brothers. He knew those he was with were murdered by the Raven, he survived for he ran away from the horrific deamon, from his brethren... afraid.
The Word Bearer felt something odd and unusual. He felt a breeze. It wasn't stagnant like the gardens of Nurgle, it wasn't inconsistent like the labyrinth of Tzeentch, it didn't carry the sweet aroma of Slaanesh, nor the harsh howls of Khorne.
He foot crashed against the endless sands, his thoughts were now upon this unknown land in Chaos. The desert was ever repeating, as if he wasn't at all; the sky evershifting, as if time was nearing it end; the breeze ever comforting, as if beckoning him to give up. His first thought was thought was that the God of Change found him as a plaything us, but then the landscape wouldn't remain this stagnate image.
He cycled through each possibility he could think of, yet none it seemed to be so. Afterwards, he began to think... no, ponder his past, for this first time since he his leigon fell to the Ruinous Powers. He was one of the few that actually regretted turning on his brother loyal to the Corpse Emporer, but he never spoke a word of it. He stuck by the words of Erebus, and his Primarch, Lorgar. He never once questioned them, for that voice of doubt was drowned in the voice of thousands ever determined.
He knew he regretted it for they were practically family, yet loyalty to his Primarch and his true brothers took precedent. That voice doubt, once a whisper now growing, for he was alone with his thoughts.
The doubts of a traitor, meant very little now. For he already fell and cannot fix it. These doubts grew to the point they were screaming constantly in his ear. A single question repeating eternally, now.
Was it worth it?
The Word Bearer kept answering yes, over and over, as along as the question was asked in his mind. Each "yes" loss conviction and confidence. He did gain power from Chaos, but he was forced to sacrifice and murder to point of numbness and apathy.
No... those would've been better, he took pleasure from it. Alongside that power and pleasure, came the memories that he wasn't allowed to forget.
WAS IT WORTH IT?
Yes!
WAS IT WORTH IT?
Yes.
WAS IT WORTH IT?
Yes...
The screaming question, quited itself before being replace by a new one. One that should be much simpler, yet it was impossible to answer.
Who am I?
The breeze halted, his endless walking stopped. The Word Bearer pondered the question. He didn't know... no, he didn't remember. His name was the only memory forgotten. His individuality was practically non-existent in his head. No one over the past century, ever called him by his name, not brother, not his masters, and certainty not the Gods.
"Who am I," the Word Bearer finally spoke. His was calm and smooth, which surprised him. How long has he been walking in the motionless desert.
His mind stopped, as he felt something glare down upon him. There were shadows for the Raven, not screeching of demons, no muttering of rituals, not even the chambering of a bolter.
Whatever it was, its gaze was all around him. The Word Bearer looked around, to see nothing. The sky shifted from endless colors to two: the insane darkness of black, and the blinding light of white.
The sand and dust of the desert swirled around him. The Word Bearer watched, lifting his bolter higher, his finger now resting right above the trigger. The dust became an thick fog, the ground was made of white and black tendrils which wrapped around each other to form a grand horrific forest of flesh and repetition.
The Word Bearer look on, into the forest of black and white. He stared into wondering what he should do, before marching on into it. His mind was quiet, unlike in the desert that this once was. He felt like he was actually moving, as each "tree" was different and disturbing.The tendrils slithered and wriggled beneath his feet. He looked around as he walked, to the side the forest rising and folding in on itself.
The path moved in ever possible direction, sideways, backwards, up and down, he swore it went upside down as well due to blood briefly rushing to his head. Everything was random yet conceivable. Soon the Word Bearer heard a voice speak to him, a roaring whisper.
"Chaos Undivided, come seek thy redemption."
As the voice rattled through the air, land softly into his ear the forest took a plunge into a deep dark pit. The Word Bearer look down into it, the soulless eyes of his helmet reflected the bueaty of the pit. Doubt in his mind quiet, now replaced by faith.
Jump.
His faith urged him. Why? This was not the work of the four Chaos gods, it couldn't be.
Seek thy redemption
His now faithful mind repeated what voice said. The ever quieting doubt, once so loud in desert snuffed out by his faith, his faith in the voice. He took one step into the hole...
and rose.
Deeper into the pit, the tendrils formed eleven fingered hands, each one catching the Word Bearer before letting him rise further and further down. The hands were gentle and euphoric.
The bottom sky shifted between the constant black and white. The Word Bearer flight ended as he landed upon the final palm. The size of the hand is incomprehensible.
The Word Bearer felt a pull as he stood up. The tentacles and flesh that formed the hand pushed and pulled him forward. His faith quieted like his doubt did. He gazed about the maddening temple of repeating colors.
"No more blood for the blood god, no more pleasure for the price, no more change for trickster, and no more rot for the grandfather. Chaos Undivided, do you seek redemption?" the voice spoke, still a whisper in the Word Bearer's ear.
The Word Bearer looked forward, seeing a throne of skin and scars. He saw the source of a voice. He saw a vessel of a god. His eyes never stayed it for too long, even as he attempted to force them to. It remained out of focus. All he saw were legs made of others scorched black, yet pale as death.
Then the Word Bearer though about the question deeply. Redemption of what? Of one's self, of one's action? What he wanted were answers. As if reading his mind the being spoke.
"You can only find answers through yourself, through faith and chaos." the god stated, the Word Bearer thought for a moment longer.
The tendrils of the palm gripping the Word Bear, slowing dragging him into the flesh. Then it clicked: redemption for everything, including himself. He hated himself and everything he touched, the desert proved that to him.
"I seek redemption."
He felt free, for the first time in his miserable life, he felt free. Free from everything. The Word Bearer laid on the ground, fire crackled next him. He looked at his right hand - which was armor somehow - and saw a simple number burned into it:
11
A/N: I am new to Warhammer 40k, so hopefully as I learn more the fanfic gets better.
Now as most of you figured out that the being was Malice or related to Malice. In this Malice isn't just Anarchy and Chaos, but also the concept of Faith and Self-loathing. The reason why, was to give Malice more like the others gods have. Plus, you need absolute faith to truly think you can kill Chaos, and for self-loathing was to show the self-destructive nature of absolute chaos.