I have returned once more! I don't think I'll be able to stick to the older one-week Technophiles & Militarists schedule, so expect a new chapter every two-ish weeks, give or take. Sorry about that. I do thank all of you for reading, though, and hope you enjoy the chapter! We're seeing some of the big bads, as several people have mentioned. Speaking of which, on to reviews!
Heart of Shepard: Thanks! I'm looking forward to the switch, especially to the next chapter. I think that one is going to be a hit. As for the wider reality, we're going to gradually see more and more of it. I hope you like what's to come!
BonesofSmite: Oh, indeed. I hope you like what's to come!
Ravenguard0009: Yeah, I've thought about that, and I'm trying to figure out how to bring it up, or if I should bring it up at all. Also, the Mechanicus getting wacky about new tech and A.I.'s would be quite the fun plot point. I'll think on them. Enjoy the chapter!
Guest: Yeah, you're right. I don't think Blanks would affect boitics. Also, there are some people that are just going to have to get used to Jurgen. Nothing they can do, and nothing he can control.
CommunistBaboon3: There will be more action in a few chapters (though I think everyone's going to like this chapter and the next one). As for Conn, yes, his species is telepathic, which I'm counting under 'things Blanks affect'. [P.S. I am Alpharius.]
ndabdm: Thank you! I know that feeling only too well when reading. I'm trying to get these out as soon as possible, so stick around (or if you do leave, come back after a few chapters have been done). It's really great to hear you enjoy the story; it means a lot. Hopefully you enjoy everything to come!
Fourteen Flames: Yeah, you are spot on with the one issue I have. There's only so much time, and so many people, it's hard to cover them all. But, I'm planning that the coming story arc will cover that. I have a lot of good ideas, and hopefully you will all enjoy it. It's also quite amusing that you mention Bloodborne: I've actually had a Bloodborne idea for a while. Since you mentioned it, I'm now writing it! Hopefully you and my other readers will enjoy, and remember to fear the Old Blood.
oOo
Malleus Malum
"You may have a part in Tzeentch's great design, but do not think yourself untouchable. Pieces on a god's chessboard are just that: pieces, and if you fail to perform adequately or refuse to play your part, you will be removed and another will fulfill your duty. The fate of men is preordained by the Architect of Fate, and while there are parts that can be rewritten if needed, minor and insignificant stories that do not impact the whole, the greater design of the God of Change is the only thing that cannot be altered. Ask for what your purpose is if you will, but do not turn against it, for you are but Tzeentch's puppet, and if you do not dance to his tune, then another will dance in your place." -Anonymous daemon lord of Tzeentch
oOo
Beneath his heavy helm, Ahzek Ahriman, former First Captain of the Thousand Sons Legion and current leader of the Prodigal Sons band, snarled as he paced aboard the deck of the Word of Hermes. The eye on the forehead of his helmet, perhaps sensing its master's mood, seemed rather concerned, occasionally looking downwards as if to see if Ahriman was alright. For his part, Ahriman merely muttered to himself. With another snarl, he threw open the doors to his quarters and began walking through the ancient vessel's halls.
The Word and the other vessels of the Prodigal Sons were currently beyond the edge of their home galaxy, bordering those of a few others. This was dead space, where no one ruled and no one had any interest in going. The perfect place to hide; the perfect place to consider a next move.
As Ahriman walked through the halls of the Word, he was greeted by the ornate temple-like architecture of the ancient Thousand Sons. Walls were leveled, with pictograms throughout, engraved in gold and turquoise. Braziers burned cheerfully. Everything was open and ornate. The walls, for all their intricate design, were welcoming works of art instead of the somber and drab silence of ancient history that usually pervaded other vessels of Ahriman's home reality.
The Word of Hermes was built in the same Legion's style as a whole structure. Its hull was a massive cliff-like structure that stretched for kilometers from bow to stern. Gunports, leveling huge macrocannons, missile and lance batteries, torpedo tubes, and even a few unique sorcerous weapons stretched up and down the Word's serrated flanks. Cities of towers and domes, all ancient Prosperan in design, rose above the ship's spine. All were ornate to the extreme, embellished with gold, silver, bronze, and encrusted with countless priceless stones. The Word of Hermes represented the power of a now-humbled ancient Legion and society that no longer existed. Outside of Ahriman and his father's fleets, the only vessels like the Word were those of the few and far between Thousand Sons sorcerors who worked for themselves or the Black Legion.
Much like everything that surrounded Ahriman, the Word and the other vessels of the Prodigal Sons were the lost jeweled treasures of a dead society. But Ahriman, unlike anyone else, strove to create what was lost anew.
However, such thoughts of grand days, now gone, were far from Ahriman's mind as he strode through the halls of the Word, heavy power armored boots clanking on the deck. Even as he passed the ornate wall carvings, quarters, servitors, and the seemingly endless libraries that made up a vessel of sorcerers, one particular thing stood out in his mind.
Along the walls, seemingly standing as endless guards throughout the entirety of the ship, were other power armored giants. They were the same height and built as Ahriman, wearing the same massive sets of turquoise and gold power armor. However, instead of the personalized intricacies and heavy staves of the lord sorcerers, these Marines held massive, blocky black firearms. Each of them stood completely stock still, staring straight ahead, holding their weapon. Motionless. Emotionless.
To Ahriman, every emotionless mask felt like an accusing glare. Every time he passed them, his brothers, his dear, betrayed brothers, he looked for movement, but there was none. Not a twitch. Not a motion.
They were called Rubric Marines, and unless commanded by a sorcerer, none of them had moved for ten thousand years.
It was his fault. All his. Of course, he blamed Magnus, their father. It was Magnus's fault this happened in the first place. Magnus lied to them, Magnus hid things from them, Magnus made a deal with Tzeentch that ended up damning them…
But the Rubric. His Rubric. Ahriman's Rubric. When the horrible mutations that pervaded the Legion, courtesy of that deal with Tzeentch, ran rampant, Ahriman had tried to stop them. He cast a mighty ritual, his First Rubric, the greatest peace of sorcery of all time, to try and save his brothers. It worked… In a way. To an extent. In a certain point of view.
The truth was the Rubric saved all of the sorcerors… and turned all of their non-psychic brothers to dust, sealed forever within their power armor. While Ahriman, in his arrogance, originally thought it had worked and placed all the blame for events on Magnus, now the sightless gazes of his brothers' helms haunted him.
He'd tried to reverse the Rubric with his Second Rubric… Which led to the present, and this… predicament.
As Ahriman walked through the halls of the Word of Hermes, he could feel his psychic brothers congregating in the main library. He frowned to himself behind his helmet. He'd not been told of any meeting. What were they up to? Did they find something? Something to undo the Rubric? Some scrap of information on this bizarre new reality?
Ahriman increased his pace, armored footfalls ringing on the deck. Softly, careful to shield himself, he reached out with his mind. He could feel… conspiracy in the air. He frowned. That did not bode well.
The library door was an utterly behemoth affair of intricately carved wood, displaying the numerical psychic equations Ignis was so fond of. It also had a psychic lock: only a Thousand Sons sorcerer could open it. Ahriman pushed it open without breaking stride.
Inside the library were countless bookshelves of dusty tomes, stretching from floor to ceiling, end to end, in the nearly stadium-sized room. One could easily get lost here. People did get lost here: the mortal servants because they were confused over where the exit was, Ahriman's brothers because they were unable to pry themselves away from the books. The library contained books of all sorts, from ancient human plays by someone called 'Shankspear' to philosophical treatises to botany textbooks. However, of course, as benefitted the group controlling it, the majority of the books contained knowledge of sorcery.
But he was getting sidetracked. Beneath the breathtaking carved and gilded ceiling, Ahriman slipped through the bookshelves to where he could feel his brothers gathering. They were all the way in the open area in the back of the library, in what had once been termed the 'dangerous' or 'restricted' area by the Legion. Ahriman and the Prodigal Sons had little care for such things now. Knowledge was power. Knowledge was the ultimate good, and ignorance the ultimate evil.
Besides, it wasn't as if the rest of the library wasn't loaded with extremely dangerous books too. As he strode forward, Ahriman noted one particular example actually grow tiny legs and try to walk off; he grabbed it and put it back in its place with an annoyed grunt. Many of the books here were very dangerous… in the wrong hands. The most powerful sorcerers in the galaxy with ten thousand years of experience did not count as the wrong hands in Ahriman's own, very-much not-biased opinion.
Finally, Ahriman wove his way through the labyrinth of books shelves and came into sight of his brothers. All of the sorcerers of the fleet were there, standing clustered in a circle. It was a sea of turquoise power armor edged in gold, staves and horned helmets jutting up above the crowd.
As Ahriman stepped forward, his brothers turned to face him warily. It was almost as if a parent had caught them doing something they weren't supposed to. The mental stench of guilt permeated the air, combined with… Ahriman tilted his head. Uneasiness. Anger. Despair. Interesting.
"Ah… Lord Ahriman," stated one of the sorcerers flatly. He looked rather hesitant, glancing towards his brothers for support. "A… uh, pleasure for you to join us." His glances became more nervous. Back me up, someone. Ahriman frowned.
"What exactly is this?" he asked, hand gripping his staff tighter. He frowned beneath his helm, looking up and down at the assemblage. Most of his brothers looked uncomfortable. A few glared at him, openly hostile. Ignis, towards the back, met his eye tiredly.
Ahzek, thank goodness you've come. I don't know what to do. Ahriman frowned harder as Ignis's private telepathic message washed over him. Something was afoot. Something he didn't know. Ahriman hated not knowing, especially in situations like this.
Before one of the more hostile-looking sorcerers could step forward, one of the more calm and collected ones raised a hand and stepped forward himself.
"Lord Ahriman, we are… concerned," this was said judiciously, as if the man was carefully trying to choose the correct word, "Over recent events." Ah. Ahriman frowned. Now that the issue was beginning to come out in the open, the sorcerers looked at each other nervously. "Your leadership has always been… Well… Erm, good for us, but it's also always been…"
"Yes?" asked Ahriman dangerously, stepping forward a pace. The sorcerer gulped nervously, but straightened himself.
"Lord Ahriman, always you've been headstrong. Reckless. Arrogant." Some of the more restrained, those that agreed with Ahriman's methods among the crowd shuffled. Others stepped forward to back up the speaker, glaring down their commander. Still others hesitated, looking caught in a battle between their brothers. "You were the one to start the First Rubric because you believed without question it would save us all. You've slaughtered untold trillions, all in the same of our brothers whom you, in your own pride, damned because you could not see another way." Ahriman seethed in fury.
"Our father-" he began with a hiss, but was interrupted.
"Was the same!" shot back the man, now fully riled and upset. "So are we all! We believe we are superior, can do anything, because of the power we wield. We ran blind, consumed by our pride, unheeding of the words of the Wolves when they burned our home." Everyone stiffened at once. Now that was a very prickly subject. "And then the Rubric, and then ten thousand years of trying to undo it. Doing anything, everything, to gain more power, to fix it, because knowledge and salvation is, of course, worth any price." The sorcerer sighed and shook his head. "But it isn't. That was the folly of our father, when he made a deal to stop the Flesh Change for the first time. And we still go about the same way blindly. Because of you," said the sorcerer softly, accusatorily. "You've led us to this point. There is no other way, you said. You have done everything, ignored anything, that put you on this path without any care to think there might be a different way."
"Are you questioning my methods?" asked Ahriman softly, dangerously, not just to the man in front of him, but to the entire group.
"Look where it's led us!" piped up someone else. Ahriman glared at him. His brother stared back, defiant.
"You've led us to this point," continued the original speaker. "Your Second Rubric was done in the same manner as the first, and now there's an entirely new reality! One we know nothing of!" This time, the man actually did step forward, his words coming faster. "You have created utter disaster for the universe! You've killed countless people for little reason! You've killed your brothers! You've killed us!"
The words hit Ahriman like a sledgehammer. Visions of empty armor staring accusatorially at him danced through his mind.
But… no. The Rubricae were still alive. They could be brought back. No. They were referring to…
"I killed Amon and the others because they needed to go," hissed Ahriman. "You all agreed. You all kneeled. My goal was and is to undo the Rubric. His goal was to kill us all and unite us in death. And so he died."
"You still killed him!" came the retort. "You've killed our brothers, and you've killed countless others, all because of your blind hubris! No more!"
The feeling of thunderheads before a storm flickered through the room. The scent of ozone wafted faintly through the air. Ahriman's staff now appeared as a burning black absence in the Warp as his shoulderplates and helmet flickered with tendrils of psychic power.
"You do, of course, remember what happened to Amon," said Ahriman slowly, casually, but backed up with a terrible wrath. He leveled a dark stare at his brothers, each in turn, letting them know exactly what the price of mutiny would be. "So… Does anyone feel like challenging me?"
There was silence for a moment. Ahriman knew this might breed later resentment. He didn't care. What he did, he did for the good of his brothers.
Besides, he had a feeling none of them would actually try to challenge him. Unless they all teamed up on him at once, they didn't have the power to defeat him, not even in small groups.
There was a brief, very tense standoff. A few of the sorcerers actually looked like they wanted to take up Ahriman on his challenge, but were trying to figure how to do it without getting vaporized first. Most simply waiting, wondering if there was actually going to be a full-on lethal brother against brother fight in the middle of the library.
Ahriman himself waited, poised, ready to unleash the terrible power bound within him and all his brothers, looking for anyone that would dare challenge him, until Ignis's voice drifted in his mind.
Ahzek, please. Please, no fighting. Please.
Ahriman stopped. Slowly, he let his power die out, leaving nothing left but emptiness.
After the Second Rubric, the surviving sorcerers of the Prodigal Sons had returned to their fleet. Everything had changed, everything was different. Many of them mused and muttered and looked into the Warp and other powers of these new galaxies. Some had tried to scry the future, to see what was happening.
Ahriman, though, returned to his quarters. Empty. Angry. Utterly desolate.
Very carefully and very calmly, he removed every book, every work of art, every relic, every artifact, and every valuable from his room and put it in the empty storage space down the hall. Then, he sat down and screamed. All the anger, all the pain, all of the shame and the sadness and the humiliation. Everything, all out in the open, in a way that he rarely could or did.
His power leveled the room, splintering furniture, knocking over everything remaining, scouring the room in psychic fire fueled from all the emotion that flowed through him. It was hidden from his brothers, of course, for he could not afford for them to see any weakness in their leader. He was Ahzek Ahriman. He did not do such things. Marines did not do such things.
But yet, somehow, he heard the door open behind him. Somehow Ignis was there, standing before him. It would take Ahriman some time to figure it out (and much checking on both his mental shields and the wards on his quarters), but eventually he realized there was nothing psychic about it at all. Ignis had merely been worried and came to see him.
Ignis was not great when it came to social things. He preferred the privacy of his own company, meditating on his numbers and figures. That was where he was at home, rather than with others. But apparently, the kindest gestures were the simplest.
Ignis had merely sat next to the exhausted Ahriman, and, in the way soldiers and siblings do to offer comfort, touch the forehead of his helm to Ahriman's. They had then simply sat beside each other for hours with no words between them, Ignis offering support with his presence and Ahriman gratefully taking it.
So now, despite everything else, in spite of everything else, if Ignis did not want any more arguments, then there would be no more arguments from Ahriman.
"I… Brothers…" Ahriman sighed to himself. He was usually good with words. They were usually good with words. But now, for some reason, he couldn't come up with anything. "I am…" There was a word he was supposed to say here. It was a word that he'd never really said before, except to his long-dead twin. In fact, it was a word that few of the Legion, their Primarch included, ever said.
But… But now, with everything, with all the terrible thoughts of the half-dead Rubrics, Ignis's loyalty, and the thoughts of all of Magnus's arrogance swirling through Ahriman's head, perhaps it was necessary.
And… and… and maybe they were right. Magnus, Horus, Mortarion, Perturabo, Fulgrim, Russ, Guilliman, Corax, Manus, the Lion, Angron, Amon, and the Emperor himself among countless others had all been led astray due to their pride. (Apparently it ran in the family.) Ahriman himself, looking back on it, was no different. He allowed hubris to rule him and define his every action. But then… how come he hadn't noticed this before? He was supposed to be the smartest and grandest of them all…
He suddenly realized what had happened, and with that, everything fell into place.
"Brothers, I'm sorry," he said softly. He was met with complete and utter silence. No one, especially in the Thousand Sons, ever said that. "I have allowed myself to be ruled by my ego. I have done a great many terrible things in its name, and I am truly sorry for it. I… I hope you can find it within yourself to forgive me."
The stunned silence continued. Ahriman was fairly certain that except for disciplinary actions when the Legions first met their Primarchs, or a few notable instances during the Great Crusade, there hadn't been a more sincere apology from an Astartes. Certainly not within the past several millennia.
"Apology accepted," said Ignis, breaking the silence. Behind his helmet, he winked at Ahriman. The leader of the Prodigal Sons couldn't help but grin. Ignis was much more clever than many people gave him credit for in situations like this. He'd just broken the silence, and the ice, in favor of Ahriman. If the lord of the ship and one of the highest-ranking sorcerers in the group was willing to forgive and forget, then the others would go along.
The others, as Ignis calculated, went along with it. Ahriman heaved a sigh of relief. That actually went… rather well. He couldn't remember a time when something like this went better, actually. Again, he was fairly certain he now knew the reason why.
"This still leaves us with the present issues about the new reality," grumbled another sorcerer, crossing his turquoise and blue plated arms.
"Yes," replied Ahriman. He gazed at his assembled brothers. "However, I think it might be better than we originally thought. And," he held up a hand before anyone else could speak. "We now have the ability to put things to rights. I don't think we can reverse the way reality is now, but we can make it better while righting old wrongs." The others stared back at him.
"What do you mean, Ahzek?" asked one.
"The Rubric," said Ahriman softly. "One of the side effects of the Rubric, or perhaps the merging of realities, is that we are now severed from Fate." His brothers looked at him as though he had stated that one plus one was ninety-four. That was ridiculous. One couldn't be unbound from Fate. They were sorcerers; they knew Tzeentch. You couldn't escape. It was a fact as unchangeable as gravity or inertia. "Feel it," urged Ahriman. "Taste it. Open your mind."
Hesitantly, his brothers did. One by one, he could feel their psychic powers deepening, their minds opening.
One by one, they gasped or nearly fell over, shocked. Ahriman smiled.
So much had been done by the Architect of Fate to destroy them and weave them apart in the game that was eternity. He had merely thought it a necessity, or sometimes that he was not controlled, he was not, but now, with Tzeentch's presence gone for the first time in his life, he could now truly see.
"Brothers, we are free." Never had any words felt better. It was like a soothing balm on Ahriman's soul, healing for a wound he never really knew existed until now. "We are free, and now, with no meddling, we can undo the past." There was murmured excitement in the air. Any arguments were forgotten.
What Ahriman realized is that most of those past arguments were being manipulated by Tzeentch, their former dark master. His pride, Amon's, their father's… the Burning of Prospero, the wars… All to be laid at the feet of the Lord of Change.
"It is our duty now to fix the mistakes of the past, and prevent the insidious powers that tainted us from now spreading to the rest of this new reality," continued Ahzek. "But brothers, be warned, for Tzeentch could find us once again if we're not careful." More murmuring, this time less joy and more planning. Ahriman was right. If they weren't careful, then things could go very badly.
"What do we do, then?" asked one of Ahriman's brothers. This was now more in line with they way they acted. They were always planning, and now, with a chance, with freedom, they could do things that had previously been impossible.
"At the present moment, we are the only ones that are truly unbound from fate," said Ahriman. "Save one group." He grinned wickedly beneath his helm. "We're going to need help… And we can accomplish our long goal on the way."
oOo
Within Sol, the capital system of the Imperium of Man, there were a myriad of breathtaking and wondrous planets. These were the jewels of the Imperium, the greatest and most powerful planets in both the empire and the galaxy as a whole. Untold countless trillions visited every Terran year, or came and went throughout the endless parade of ships that flowed through the heart of the Imperium. The diadem that made up the system was gilded with such wonders as Holy Terra, the Throneworld, the capital, a city of trillions, the seat of the Golden Throne and center of the Imperial Cult. Then, of course, there was Mars, the seat of the Adeptus Mechanicus and the greatest forgeworld within the galaxy. There was Venus, a manufacturing world with countless luxury resort orbiting stations, and Jupiter, home of the most sprawling shipyards in the universe.
However, of all the planets in the Sol System, there was one that no one ever went to. While a seemingly endless parade of ships made their way to Holy Terra and Blessed Mars to deliver food, supplies, pilgrims, and countless other wondrous goods, none ever stopped on the sixth planet orbiting the sun. While vessels hung in orbit around other planets and their many moons, in their countless multitudes, none ever did above Saturn. The only ships orbiting Saturn were a few non-descript vessels among a small fleet of very dangerous-looking defensive craft.
The cargo and other transport pilots knew better than to ever pass within range of Saturn. Those that did were immediately ordered back: if a wayward ship continued on its course, it was instantly obliterated. They knew why, through stories, rumors, and the occasional unfortunate malfunction or over-curious pilot.
Saturn was a fortress of the Imperial Inquisition, the dread secret police of the Imperium of Man. What happened on Saturn no one outside the Inquisitorial Ordos knew. None cared to find out.
But… What the spacers did know was that whatever was on Saturn was far tamer than whatever went on upon the sixth planet's moons.
Nothing could be confirmed, of course. But there were rumors, as there always were. Rumors told in spacers' bars, with men and women fearfully looking around to make sure Inquisitorial agents weren't lurking in the shadows.
The worst rumors were about the largest moon. Some called it Titan: that was what was said on the old star charts, predating the Heresy itself. But that moon, whatever it was, what was on it, was not listed in any Imperial records or star charts. All of the spacers said it was haunted. What happened there was unknown. Some said it was a planet pulled from time, or other outlandish stories. Others said they could feel… things, terrible things, whispering at them whenever they passed within its sight.
In truth, the moon was indeed called Titan. Its secrecy was absolute, and the organization that controlled it answered to no one besides the Ordo Malleus of the Imperial Inquisition. Not even the High Lords of Terra, regent rulers of the Imperium, had jurisdiction over them. They were a group apart, and stifling secrecy surrounded them like a shroud.
Upon the snowy wastes of Titan, past the jutting ice sheets, gaping caverns, and lakes of liquid methane, nestled in the base of Mount Anarch, was a fortress of dark black. It stood out as an imposing spire of darkness against the surrounding icy wastes. Massive macrocannon and lance batteries jutted from its form, sweeping the sky for anything that would dare intrude upon Titan's domain. Outside of the Ordo Malleus and a select few other organizations, no one knew of this shadowy fortress upon Titan, and for good reason. Built ten thousand years ago upon Saturn's icy moon by the Emperor and his chief assistant, Malcador, this place was called the Citadel of Titan and was the home and headquarters of the Grey Knights.
Within empty, dusty halls, ornate silver guildings and golden lettering strode and wove their way throughout. The air was still and silent. Dust covered the ancient floors. Occasionally, a servitor or chapter serf would shuffle their way through the halls, tending to the millions of menial tasks required to keep the Citadel running. Apart from that, there was only the cycling of the atmospheric controls. No other sounds pervaded the dust-coated halls.
Everything within the fortress was seemingly silver in color. The halls themselves wore its sheen proudly, gilded and ornate, like a palace of conquering heroes. Golden lettering and murals of battles and heroes filled the spaces on the walls, weaving up and down and seemingly covering every iota of space. Outside of these walls and sealed records located within the Ordo Malleus archives on Saturn, no one knew of the battles transcribed.
Apart from the serfs and servitors, there was little movement in the halls. Everything was silent and coated with dust. Deeper in the Citadel, there were congregations of the fortress's inhabitants, but there were few comings and goings. This ancient, seemingly all-permeating silence was not due to numbers or disuse, but rather because the inhabitants of the fortress were always on duty throughout the galaxy.
The Grey Knights were a chapter of Space Marines unknown outside of the Inquisition. They were kept a secret on Titan due to their singular, terrible purpose: they were the Imperium's foremost daemonhunters. If a mortal man could be made into the perfect weapon for killing the horrid creatures of the Warp known as daemons, that pinnacle would result in a Grey Knight.
Each Grey Knight was a Space Marine, eight feet tall and giant in stature. Genetically modified into a lethal machine, as all Marines were, every one of them was a terrifying force to behold on a mortal battlefield. Yet, there were threats far beyond mortal to the Imperium of Man, and so Grey Knights forsook those battles in favor of combating the Daemonic Legions of the Chaos Gods.
Grey Knights were all psykers, sorcerers of unrivaled skill even amongst the Librarians of their cousin Marine chapters. Each underwent brutal training from a very young age not only to become a Marine, but to be an impenetrable mental fortress amongst the raging storm of the Warp. They were hunters and slayers of all things daemonic, and trained as such: no slip-ups could be afforded. Nothing could be left to chance.
They were horrifyingly effective at their job.
But yet Chaos was the greatest threat to the Imperium of Man, and thus the Grey Knights were always spread throughout the galaxy, fighting the Dark Gods and their pawns wherever they might crop up. It was an impossible battle, but the Grey Knights ever-strove to stem the tide and protect humanity as a whole, whatever the cost.
Thus it was on this day that the heavy repeating thud of power armored boots sounded throughout the halls of the Citadel of Titan. It was a rather strange sound to hear at this pace, though none of the serfs or servitors reacted or cared. Usually, when the brothers of the Knights walked through their fortress-monastery, they did so at a reverent, quiet pace. There was a breathless sanctity to this place, and to disturb it almost felt wrong. Yet the footfalls echoing through the halls were those of a man in a hurry, with somewhere to be.
A Grey Knight, fully armored, made his way from the outer bastion to the inner heart of the Citadel. As all of his type did, he wore extraordinary heavy silvery power armor. It was decorated with a dizzying array of heraldic symbols wrought in gold filigree. Most were skulls, though golden aquilas, wings, swords, books, and scrawls of text in unknown and long-lost languages adorned pauldrons, greaves, gauntlets, and a broad chestplate. A large statuesque hood-like structure of haloed eagle's wings came up above the rear of the man's uncovered head. His face was old and wrinkled, long mustache and neatly-trimmed beard hanging in weathered gray. However, his eyes betrayed a youthful sharpness, crackling and dancing with unfathomable power.
The man continued through the halls of the Citadel, past ignoring serfs busy on their tasks and servitors single-mindedly scrubbing floors or checking wiring. A frown adorned his face: he was clearly a man on a mission.
Eventually, he reached a large open chamber. Halls branched in multiple directions, while a massive mural of silver-armored knights dueled creatures of such eye-bleeding horror that mortal men could scarce look upon it. The Knight ignored it, and headed to a bank of elevators on one section of the wall. Pressing a button, he then stepped inside a large rectangular elevator car still adorned with the same silvery look as the rest of the Citadel. A servitor, covered in cybernetics, its remaining fleshy face dead and pale, looked up to the Knight.
"What floor?" it asked with no emotion in its voice.
"Top level," replied the Knight distantly, his mind on something else. The servitor merely pressed a series of buttons and pulled a lever before the elevator lurched into motion. With the grind and clank of ten thousand-year old machinery, the elevator finally lurched into place after an abominably slow lift ride of dozens of minutes. The Citadel was not a small structure. "Upper level: the Augurium," announced the servitor, voice still lifeless. The Knight wordlessly stepped forward, the elevator doors clanging shut behind him.
The Augurium was the highest floor on the Citadel of Titan. The lift opened to an outer chamber. The floor of the entire level was made of Terran marble with pink veins flowing through it: the last of its type in the galaxy. There was no ornamentation in the outer chamber save a massive gate of blackened bronze, guarded by two halberd-wielding Grey Knights in full suits of behemoth, hunch-backed Terminator armor. The Marine that just stepped from the lift walked to the massive double doors and nodded at the guards.
"Aldrik Voldus, Warden of the Libarius, to see the Prognosticars," enunciated the Knight firmly. The two Terminators shared a glance; as one, they reached out with their minds, searching Voldus for psychic proof of his identification. Voldus gave it, allowing his mind and clarity of purpose to burn brightly. Satisfied, the Terminators stepped aside. The gate opened in stages, steel bars that barred the way withdrawing. Finally, the gate slid apart and Voldus stepped foot in the inner sanctum.
The inner sanctum of the Augurium was a bizarre place. The only light came from the flickering of candles throughout the chamber. Its walls were all mirrored, which served to create a strange and ghostly atmosphere. Throughout it all, the brothers that acted as Prognosticars kneeled or sat throughout, each silent in meditation.
They were specialists even among the Grey Knights who were particularly sensitive to fluctuations within the Warp or whose foresight talents were abnormally good. It was their duty to read the tides of the Warp to predict daemonic incursions so the Grey Knights could be there to stop the Great Enemy. For the most part, their skills were more like hunting instincts than foresight: they tracked ripples in the Warp, seeing where the enemy gathered the thickest.
Voldus was careful not to disturb any of the Prognosticars, either with his mind or body. Instead, he simply looked around, intrigued at the sight, waiting.
After a few moments, a group of Prognosticars, all wearing heavy, concealing white robes instead of power armor, walked towards him, footfalls mere whispers even for their massive size. Voldus nodded in greeting.
"Grand Master Voldus, good of you to come," said the lead Prognosticar, voice a whisper.
"My pleasure to be here," replied Voldus in an equally quiet tone. The group led Voldus to an empty corner of the large chamber and gestured for him to sit. Voldus knelt; it was rather awkward to sit on the ground in power armor.
"I'm sure you know why I'm here," began Voldus. It might have been somewhat unnecessary to say that to a group of psykers whose expertise was foresight, but Voldus didn't really know how else to begin. Everything happening was just so strange.
"Indeed," replied the lead Prognosticar. He looked to his fellows. "Recent events have been… disturbing." Voldus nodded. That was putting it rather mildly, too.
"The idea that reality could simply… do this, conjoin…" Voldus gestured vaguely. "Is astonishing. It's nothing we were expecting, and throws everything we've ever known into disarray." He looked at the Prognosticars with a frown. "Have you any idea what happened? Have you any idea who or what is responsible?" There was a moment of silence as the Prognosticars shared a look. Eventually, one of them spoke.
"We're… not entirely sure," he admitted. Voldus frowned. That wasn't good. "However, there are whispers in the Warp that this is the doing of Ahzek Ahriman." Voldus frowned even deeper. Ahriman. That was even worse. "However, the bizarre thing is… It seems as if Tzeench's forces are incredibly displeased by this." The Prognosticar frowned at Voldus. "We cannot and will not attempt to guess what a Chaos god is planning, but whatever happened, it seems to have thrown them all for a loop. There haven't been any major moves since the… event. We're still trying to figure out if this is merely a precursor to something big or if the Dark Gods genuinely were not involved and are trying to figure out for themselves what happened."
"So what's the situation?" asked Voldus. "What must we do?" The Prognosticars shared another glance.
"Brother Raldrius saw a vision earlier today," said one of them. He frowned. "It's quite unusual, but perhaps it might mean something." Voldus nodded, curious.
"I saw the universe," said one of the Prognosticars suddenly. Voldus turned to him. They weren't ones for introductions, apparently. So be it. It fit them, and him. "It was balanced on the edge of a razor, teetering to either side. On one side were nine lights, mortal souls, surrounded by a starry background of countless others. On the other side was a tide of darkness and chaos, waiting to devour everything." The Marine, Raldrius, turned and looked Voldus. "I know not what the specifics are: nine lights could be nine galaxies, nine people, nine groups… Anything. Such are the nature of such visions. However, the issue is obvious, and does not require foresight or visions to grasp."
"We are teetering on the edge of something, or many somethings," mused Voldus. "The Dark Gods, even if they are confused, will not be so for long. They will be able to manipulate this situation to their liking." He looked at his assembled brothers. "Is there… Chaos in these other realities?" Surprisingly, he was met by a series of no's.
"There are not," replied one of the Prognosticars. "We seem to be able to access our powers, their Immateriums… But there are no Dark Gods, there is no Chaos with a capital 'C' in any of these new realities that is now conjoined to ours." The Prognosticar frowned. "Which makes them even more susceptible to the malign influences of our own reality."
This news was met with mutterings. The Grey Knights knew what happened to those that did not have the power to resist the more malign aspects of the Dark Gods. The Imperium as a whole did know something of the existence of evil, the existence of Chaos, and was taught to fear it… But the true, terrible reality of the daemonic was reserved for those soldiers that fought it. If the Imperium, with all her might, all her hate, all her religious zeal, was still susceptible to the influence of the Dark Gods, it meant the other realities might not know what hit them.
"What of these other realities? What defenses do they have… And what troubles of their own might we need to fight?" asked Voldus.
"Of extra-reality threats on the scale or type of Chaos, we have found nothing," came the reply. "But there is certain to be a slew of issues with each one." The Prognosticar sighed and stood. "But that is not our domain. As for Chaos…" Another frown. "Barriers between dimensions and puzzlement at this new reality will keep them at bay for a time. But not indefinitely."
"What must we do?" asked Voldus.
"When the day comes, we must be ready. We shall sharpen our skills, as we always have. But to monitor threats on an extra-galactic scale, we shall need more than just the Prognosticar order," said Raldrius with a tint of humor. "This falls under the purview of diplomacy and all of those things we do not get involved with." His eyes lit up with sudden intensity. "But when that day comes… We strike as we always have struck. Our mission stays the same. One final shield against the coming darkness. One last blade, forged in defiance of fate." Voldus nodded somberly.
"Very well," he replied. "I'll update my brotherhood." So saying, he bowed and turned, making his way out of the Augurium.
Nodding to the two Terminator guards as he stepped through the gate, he waited for the long elevator ride. The bronze double doors shut and sealed behind him with an ominous clanking, clanging noise. Voldus activated his comms.
"Chief Librarian, Brother-Captain," he said, speaking to the two chief subordinates of the Brotherhood he commanded. "Contact Lord Hector. Tell him what I am about to tell you, and inform him that the agents of the Throne must be in place to watch for coming issues…"
oOo
Luke Skywalker sat cross-legged upon a moss-covered stone. He was wearing a simple black robe with black pants and boots: his Jedi's ensemble. Admittedly, it wasn't great protection for his rear against the uncomfortable pokey bits that rocks seemed to be made of, but he supposed that was just what a Jedi had to put up with.
Around him, the verdant greenery of a forest rose up to create a peaceful sea of greens and browns. Lush trees of all sorts, the tall and skinny needle trees and the wide, heavy, exuberant leaf trees, to the scraggly bushes on the ground and the vines that wove their way through everything, dancing and crawling, created a scene of complete natural beauty. Fallen leaves rustled in the faint breeze. The wind danced across Skywalker's cheeks and ruffled his cloak ever-so-slightly: he smiled softly, content to be in such a place. Even the rock beneath him, for all its discomfort, was merely something that belonged, and served to shelter him from the pinpricks of fallen needles and thorns and the dampness of the moss that covered the ground.
He was on the planet Chespea, a verdant forest planet in the Outer Rim. Luke smiled to himself once again: it was good to be somewhere on the Outer Rim once more, away from the hustle and bustle of the Core, to where he had grown up and where he belonged. Yes, as the (currently only) representative of the Jedi Order to the New Republic, there were a great many duties he had to fulfill. But, unlike many of his friends, he was a Jedi first and foremost. Politics was not his place.
That was his sister's realm. Leia was the master of that tangled and treacherous area of expertise. Luke was often astounded at how she navigated the awful sea that was the New Republic's political arena, moving through it like a shark, bold and unbothered, swift and deadly. He could never do that. It simply wasn't his nature; wasn't who he wanted to be.
He found it odd and actually quite amusing that all of his friends, the old Rebels who didn't care about rules or regulations, who spoke true and didn't care about diplomacy or law, were now tangled up in the politician sphere of the New Republic. Wedge was a general, an odd fit for a starfighter pilot. Maxine was still the commander of the Intelligence Corps, only now he couldn't just do whatever he wanted. He had to play nice (to Skywalker and the others' endless amusement).
Stars, even Lando Calrissian was now the General-Baron-Governor-Administrator of someplace-or-another. Luke could never really remember what he did. It was compounded by the fact that Lando seemed to do everything at once and often switch positions: one day he was a general of the army, leading troops, the next he was in charge of a planet or sector of space. It was baffling, but Lando was happy, and so Luke was happy for his friend.
The only one who didn't fit in with politics (besides Luke) was, of course, Han. The captain of the Millennium Falcon preferred the hum of his ship and the streaking of the stars over a life on a city world in the Core. Oh, yes, he stayed still a lot more now, thanks to his infatuation with Leia, but he was still a starship captain and a wanderer.
In fact, as soon as the… event happened, the strange convergence of galaxies, Han had immediately gone out to the new galaxies in search of what he might find there. (It had caused an argument with Leia, with Luke watching amusedly on the sidelines.) Han was now off somewhere, apparently meeting new people much like himself. He'd report back soon enough, and then perhaps they'd have a better idea of what inhabited these other new galaxies.
Luke was away from the Core and on Chespea for much the same reason. While Han and Chewie scoured the stars, seeing what there was to see in the Falcon, Luke decided to focus on what he knew best: the Force. He was the only remaining Jedi; in fact, perhaps the only remaining trained Force user. At least, the only one he or the New Republic knew of. There might be other monastic orders on far-off planets, but Luke was the last Jedi, and the Sith were no more. It thus fell to him to discern things through the Force, especially in an event such as this.
Luke had no idea what happened. On the day of the convergence, he was simply sitting aboard the old Lambada shuttle he used for his Jedi business, when he was struck by a wave of power. He couldn't tell where it was from, or what happened, but it washed over everything and drowned out all else for a brief moment, before dissipating. Shortly after he learned of the galactic convergence.
He was now on Chespea to meditate on things. If he could learn of anything through the Force, it would be a boon. Chespea was the host of an old High Republic Jedi temple. A planet tinged with life and greenery, influenced by Jedi and swirling with the Light Side, away from any hustle and bustle and politics, it was the perfect place to connect with the Force.
So Luke simply sat in his plain garb, cross-legged, meditating in the middle of the forest. Slowly, he opened his mind to the Force. Once upon a time, he was terrible at meditation. He smiled at the thought. Brash and impulsive, young and reckless, he certainly did exasperate Obi-Wan and Yoda to no end.
But now he was calmer. Older. More collected and experienced.
Slowly, he reached out with his mind. Around him, the planet, the world, the universe seemed to explode with light and life. Luke could feel every shoot and stem, every leaf and tree, every insect crawling upon them and every small mammal burrowing in the earth below. Life. Light. Eternity at its smallest form up to its largest.
Luke basked in the feeling. There was no telling how long he was in the trance. He did not care. It did not matter. He was open to the Force, and the Force flowed through him. He was in tune with the Light Side, and every feeling of glorious life came to his senses.
Peace. Knowledge. Serenity. Harmony.
The Force.
It was staggering to think about the enormity of the universe. Luke could feel the Force through all things, but like any sense, it was merely commonplace to him. It was something else entirely when he truly thought about it or opened himself up in this context. This was life and emotion on a scale that few could truly comprehend.
Eventually, gradually, everything around Luke seemed to fade. It grew dark, and Luke simply sat, content in oneness with the Force.
But then, the scene around him abruptly changed. Gone was the darkness and the starlike pinpricks of light that was connecting in deep mediation with the Light Side of the Force. Gone were the trees and the greenery and the life of Chespea. Instead, Luke found himself somewhere else entirely.
He was sitting on the same rock, but this time atop a bluff overlooking what seemed to be an endless field of soft, dark grass. The sky above him was incredibly strange. The planet seemed to be at twilight, but… not any sort of twilight Luke was familiar with. Usually, the sun simply set, lowering itself against the horizon, the light dimming across the sky until night fell. Here, there was something else entirely.
One half of the sky was bright, as if morning, the sun glowing golden and rising in the dawn. The other half was pitch black, deep and midnight, the sky completely covered with inky clouds. The best of night on one side, the best of day on the other.
Between them, where Luke sat, a tiny tiny sliver of twilight danced upon the ridge. The orangish red, tinged with the dark of the night and the gold of the sun, shone over where he sat. It was quite the bizarre place, and Luke couldn't help but think it was unnatural, in a strange but yet somehow comforting way.
Below the ridge, on both sides, coating the dew-kissed valley beneath the golden sun and the dark sweeping meadow beneath the night sky were what seemed to be endless numbers of people. They were separated by the ridge, by the twilight, but yet Luke could still see some of them intermingling with each other, traversing or talking or even moving from one place to the next. It was rather strange.
With a start, Luke swore he saw Obi-Wan beneath him, on the side of the sun. A smidgin of a familiar walk, a familiar cut of hair and trim of beard beneath a brown hood. Luke shook his head to clear it. Was it? Could it possibly be? Was this place… something that had to do with those who had given themselves up to the Force?
Honestly, it made sense.
With another startled jolt, Luke realized he wasn't the only one on the ridge. Before him, sitting in the same cross-legged position on another flat rock, was a robed and armored man. The figure's cloak was black, draped around the body and rising up to hood the head. Chest, legs, and arms were armored, colored a simply rusty red and silvery gray. The figure's face was masked: a helm of the same rusty red covered the head, coming down in a smooth, almost triangular shape to the chin. There was a single straight, black horizontal vision slit in the mask, staring out emotionlessly from the armor.
Luke didn't move from his position, not wishing to disturb whoever this might be. However, he apparently made some sort of movement betraying his position, for the figure turned its head to stare at him. Luke returned the gaze, looking with a simple curiosity and politeness, hoping that the figure would see him for exactly what he was: not a threat.
The masked figure stood languidly, fluidly, stepping off the rock with a simple graceful dignity. The long black robe shifted, and, intriguing, Luke could see two lightsabers hanging on the armored individual's belt. With the same air of quiet contemplation, the figure clasped its hands neatly behind its back and looked upward, staring at the sky.
"I do not walk in the darkness, for it robs me of my surroundings," said the figure softly. It was a man's voice, powerful yet elegant, demanding instant respect but with the quiet wisdom of a great and trusted teacher. "I do not walk in the light, for it robs me of the stars. I walk in the twilight, and while some say both are dulled, it is only here that one can see the full picture and walk in balance." The mask turned towards Luke, tilted curiously.
"Who are you?" asked Luke. He was genuinely curious. Perhaps this man might be able to explain where he was and what was going on.
"My name, frankly, is not important," replied the man. He turned back to the sky, staring upwards, seemingly enraptured. "What is important is what you seek," he continued. "You've come seeking answers, and I will provide them to the best of my abilities." This was followed by a sigh. "Present events are… Disturbing, to say the least. You know of the shift in realities, I take it?" Luke nodded.
"Yes." The man nodded.
"I thought so, else you'd not be seeking answers." He unfolded his hands and strolled towards Luke. The last of the Jedi did not move, but looked up, curious, waiting for answers or for an attack. "Events have been put into play that cannot be undone. What you must do is weather the coming storm. I will give you two warnings, and one piece of advice." Luke listened carefully. He knew when not to interrupt. "The first concerns these new realities. You might not understand this now, Jedi, but the Force is not evil. The Force merely is. It is a tool, just as a blaster, or a lightsaber, or a starship is a tool. It can be used for both good or evil, depending upon its wielder. Thus, the Dark Side, that which you fear, is not evil. It is. It is the night that follows day, the dusk that follows dawn, the storm that comes to water the land, death that comes after life. All of these things are natural; none of them evil."
Luke frowned. The Dark Side drew off of negativity. The Light followed positive emotions; or, in the Jedi code, lack of emotions. The Dark drew from negative emotions, or excess of emotion. He'd seen what it did. He'd seen how it twisted and corrupted his father. He'd seen how the Emperor wielded it. Every time he came across the Dark Side, he could feel it corrupting, tempting, always wanting for people to give in and commit the worst of acts. He wasn't so sure about this man's interpretation.
"The Force is what binds us, creates us, surrounds us, and flows through all things," continued the man, apparently unheeding or uncaring of any of Luke's internal thoughts. "It is natural. That is the key to things. However," his voice changed, tone much more commanding, and Luke listened intently. "There are things in some of these new realities that are the opposite. They are inherently unnatural. They draw not from that which flows through and creates life, but that which twists and turns and corrupts reality itself." The mask stared intently at Luke, vision slit boring holes through his eyes. "This you must understand, and fear. There is a tide of darkness coming, seeking to swallow this new universe. Gird yourself in the armor of the Force, and strengthen your mind. These things you must resist, else the universe will fall into unending darkness and chaos."
Well. That didn't sound good. Luke frowned. He'd thought there were terrible things coming, and it seemed he was right.
"The second warning is as follows." The man turned and pointed down to all the countless people standing on both sides of the ridge. "There will come a time in the future: not yet, not now, but later, when those that walk here will return. There will be a trial for most of the realities now present together, and our galaxy is no different. Force users far more powerful than yourself will return, and you must put things to rights once again."
Okay, now that was creepy. Was this truly the place where Force users who died went? Were all of the people here truly ghosts, separated into Dark and Light? Luke was starting to think so.
"Lastly," continued the man, snapping Luke from his thoughts, "My advice. This is the advice I give all I meet, including many Jedi throughout the ages." He laughed mirthlessly. "Though not many take it." The visor bored holes into Luke once more. "Everyone thinks the Dark Side and Light Side are mutually exclusive. They are afraid to use both, or only have the wits and mental limits to use one. To truly become a Force user, you must use both. The Jedi and the Sith both seek balance, do they not? The entire point of Anakin Skywalker, your father," Luke stiffened (how did he know?), "Was to restore balance. He did so. The Jedi and the Sith do not respectively dominate the galaxy as they did before he arrived. Now, Luke, you have a choice. You may only walk beneath the sun, or you can restore balance. I implore you to walk in the twilight, for only then will you reach your full potential."
Before Luke could do anything, say anything, ask the man any further questions, he held up an armored hand. With a wave, the sky above them spun. Stars danced, and the sun rotated, day and night rapidly blending until there was nothing left.
Luke's eyes snapped open. Off-balance, he tumbled off the rock he'd been sitting on and faceplanted into a carpet of leaves. Groaning, he looked up. Around him were the lush greenery and towering trees of Chespea once more. The strange planet of duality was gone.
Standing shakily, Luke frowned. He wasn't quite sure what just happened, but he could very well guess. Ultimately, though, a planet of Force ghosts, and the strange man's urgings to use both the Light and Dark in harmony meant little in the face of his warnings.
There was a storm coming, and Luke had to stop it. The only questions were when and how.
Unfortunately, he didn't know the answers. All he could do was rely what he'd learned to Leia, and try to find more information about the threats from these new galaxies. He'd train like he'd never trained before, because he was the only Jedi left, and if he fell, then his galaxy might just fall with him.
oOo
Doctor Stephen Strange strode through the hallways of the New York Sanctum, red cloak billowing magnificently behind him. His boots rang clearly on the hardwood floors as he passed countless rooms full of strange devices, shelves of endless books, and glass containers and pedestals full of magical artifacts.
The New York Sanctum was one of three bases of the sorcerers that defended Earth. The group were known as the 'Masters of the Mystic Arts'; a rather clunky name in Strange's opinion. He'd like to change it to something more interesting one of these days. If, of course, he could. Any name change would probably result in resistance, even if he was the leader of the group.
None of that mattered right now. What did matter was current events.
When Thanos was defeated upon the broken rubble that had once been the Avengers' compound, the power of the Stones used to destroy him had resulted in an utterly massive upheaval in time and space. Bizarrely, Strange had not seen this outcome in all of the countless futures he had visited using the Time Stone. This hadn't happened in any of them. This couldn't happen; at least, that was what Strange thought before now.
Personally, he didn't think it was just the Infinity Stones. The Stones were conducive over reality, but not on a scale that could actively bring other realities and merge them together. In addition, the Stones obeyed whomever was controlling them: in this case, Tony Stark, whose one and only goal was to wipe out Thanos and his army. The side effects shouldn't have been possible, which meant something more was afoot.
Thanos and his army had been destroyed: the original intention of Stark's snap. Strangely, Stark himself was fine, something that should have been impossible (and was against the future Strange had seen, where Stark sacrificed his life). Then, of course, there was the convergence of realities.
Strange did not know how any of this happened, but he vowed to find out. It was his job as the Sorcerer Supreme to defend Earth and this reality. If there were any threats, or any reason that caused this, then it was his duty to know and combat it. If possible, he would set things to rights once more and restore each reality to a state of separation.
He had a feeling that might not be possible.
First and foremost, he had to find out what was going on. If there were any threats out there, he had to know. If this convergence was the work of Dormammu or a being like him, then he had to act.
Finally reaching the upper floor of the Sanctum, Strange sighed as he looked over the smooth wood balcony before the large window peering out over the New York City streets. This was where it all began: where he truly learned to become a Sorcerer instead of a stuck-up, egotistical surgeon. (Though some of his comrades still thought there was a bit too much ego remaining: he agreed with them, and tried to stuff it down, but a personality was a personality.)
Centering himself on the floor, Strange levitated upwards with the help of his magical, semi-sentient cloak. Moving his legs into a cross-legged position and spreading his arms outward, palms up, he began to meditate. Slowly, ever so slowly, he opened himself up and began to search with his sorcerous senses.
It was always an interesting feeling to reach out and leave one's body behind. He seemed to soar into the void, the minisculeness of Earth left behind. This was the very first thing he'd ever experienced with the powers of sorcery, when the former Sorcerer Supreme had done this to him to convince him her powers were real. This was the ability to venture between realms and galaxies, to see all that there was to see.
However, he was not concerned with his own galaxy or realm this time. No. He knew what there was to know about his own reality. This one was placid enough with Dormammu defeated and Thanos destroyed. Of course, problems could and would crop up, but for as of right now, the main issue and threat were the eight other realities that had been conjoined with his.
Mental defenses high, he allowed himself to silently roam to the first of these new realities. Thoughts, feeling, emotions all flittered through his mind, caressing and swirling around it. Just as it was where he came from.
This first place, this first reality… Hmm. He could feel the residual energy of the power that combined realities floating freely here. But… It was not from a person or ritual. How strange. Rather, it felt like it came from a… machine? Strange frowned.
Whatever happened here, something to do with the power of a strange device, had helped to combine realities. Yet even more bizarrely, there was nothing else. No sorcerers, no magic, nothing of anything like that.
Frowning to himself, Strange examined this place for a time. There was nothing else: whatever helped to cause the convergence was now gone, most likely destroyed in the event.
Satisfied, Strange moved on to the next galaxy. Searching from end to end, his power flying through the stars, he found nothing. There were no threats here, and nothing troubling leapt out at him. No sorcery of any sort; no powers beyond the natural limits of one's own body and mind.
The next three galaxies were much like it. Nothing extraordinary; in fact, nothing at all. One felt… off, like there was something going on far above his kin, with like and dark crashing together. It reminded him of Dormammu, but this wasn't something that would interfere.
Of the remaining two, one was completely ordinary in a sorcerous sense. Nothing here. The second, strangely, was unnaturally devoid of anything. It was almost as if some outside force had swept in and removed any sense of souls, any history or past, anything sorcerous and forced the dead away. It was quite bizarre, but there were no threats in either of these places. Nothing to worry about. No eldritch creatures, no higher beings, nothing that was an issue. Moving on.
The next galaxy was very different. Here, he could immediately taste the power swirling and flowing through reality.
It was an energy field, created from the presence and being of all living things, from the tiniest microbes to the largest of creatures. It surrounded them, bound them, and flowed through them, conducting itself through everything, singing in harmony. This strange energy field seemed to be reality itself. How intriguing. It was quite unlike the power that Strange used or found in his home reality. From what he could tell, this field only allowed some to access it in a meaningful way. For others, it simply flowed, unassuming yet still present.
Strange crept closer, reaching out to feel this intriguing force. He touched it, examined it, felt it, and found something quite intriguing. There was an interesting duality to this force. Part of it was light and life, peace and serenity, warmth and gladness, the joy of the light of the sun and the glory of life. The other, part of the same force yet still intriguingly separate, was darkness and death, wrath and passion, strength and violence, the malice of rage and revelry of domination. It was altogether utterly fascinating: this energy was one and the same, yet had a dual nature.
The Sorcerer Supreme sat there, content merely examining. How very interesting that this one source could have a dual nature. It could be used for either dark or light: each 'side' seemed to feed on different things and emotions. The entire field was nearly two different things, existing together as one in duality. Fascinating.
While this strange energy was incredibly interesting, Strange was here for threats, not scientific observation. He couldn't feel any lingering taint from the event that converged realities, nor any higher beings of great threat. If there were any users of this energy field, they weren't direct and immediate issues. Satisfied, Strange moved on to the next reality.
There was nothing here. No lingering issues of the convergence power, no energy fields, no practitioners of anything related to his sorcerous fields of study. He was about to move onward, satisfied there was nothing more here than the natural and scientific when he suddenly felt a presence behind him.
Strange blinked, and without warning, found himself standing in a blank white room. What? He looked around, confused but ready to fight should the need arise.
Staring at him, lounging in a comfortable white chair with some sort of drink in hand, was what appeared to be a human man wearing some sort of ridiculous, outlandish garb of Renaissance-era nobility. Strange was immediately on even higher alert. What was this? This most certainly was not a human. Whatever situation he was in, it most certainly did not bode well.
"Surprised?" asked the being with a lackadaisical grin. It sipped whatever liquid it was holding. "It's a rather… Strange development, don't you think?" it continued with a giggle. Strange was immediately discombobulated and wary of the pun on his name: whatever this thing was, it knew him. However, he couldn't afford to let it show, so he straightened, outwardly calm.
"No," he replied casually. The being laughed uproariously.
"Heh, yes you are!" It took another sip of its drink. "While it is so rare to get guests, I do try to be a good host and know all of them by name." It smiled again, but this smile was far more devious and far less innocent. Strange frowned. What was this? The being turned suddenly, looking around at things that were not there. "Hmm. My time is short, little sorcerer. There's simply so much to do within an immortal lifespan, and, as it is, there's much work to be done in little time." The still-unnamed being stared directly at Strange, boring holes into him with the sudden intensity of his glare. "There are things coming; terrible things." He shrugged. "I'm usually not so forthright, but hey, desperate times and all that." He leaned in again, serious once more. "The darkness is spreading, and coming for us all. You must be there to fight it."
"Wha-" asked Strange, attempting to find out exactly who or what this thing was. However, he was cut off with an idle flick of a hand.
"Oh, it doesn't matter. What matters is that you now have your warning." The being took another sip of his (its?) drink. "Anyway, be prepared. Have fun. Try not to die. Good luck!" Before Strange could do anything else, the being snapped its fingers, and the Sorcerer Supreme was once more floating in space, his consciousness no longer bound to whatever place that had been.
Well, whatever had just happened, it was most certainly a puzzle. Strange shook his head, bemused. Usually, massively powerful beings such as that one tried to annihilate him in body and soul instead of making odd jokes while sipping unknowable liquid.
Now that was something to look further into and ponder. When Strange returned, he would have to try and find any and all information he could on whatever being that was. However, whatever it was seemed to be gone now. He still had work to do.
Strange turned his gaze to the last galaxy. Moving forward, he allowed himself to study and test its barriers from afar. There was something… off about this one; something that was drifting elsewhere, starting to spread itself through all the other realities. The stench of the power that brought realities together wafted out from it. Strange frowned. It was rather disconcerting.
He entered the galaxy, searching for anything sorcerous or within his line of work… and immediately found it. This was some terrible alternative realm of being, and as he opened his mind, it immediately sucked him in. He tried his best not to scream as emotion engulfed him.
Hate. Rage. Wrath. Blood. Apathy. Stagnation. Rot. Despair. Intrigue. Ambition. Fate. Change. Lust. Pleasure. Pain. Excess.
So much. Too much. Conflicting ideas and ideals; the nature of unreality itself. Dead uncountable, screaming in torment from a sea of souls. A Great Game, a chess match between beings Strange didn't even want to know existed. An endless war, for eternity, between factions so powerful it felt as if he were but a single grain of sand on an infinite beach, a person of such miniscule importance and power he could do nothing to stop the inevitable descent of the universe into the madness of unreality. A future that would doom everything, an eternity of carnage and slaughter, all played out to the moving laughter of thirsting gods.
This time he did scream as the emotions, the sheer chaos of this place engulfed him, clawed at him, and threatened to drown him. He tried to break free, tried to use all his knowledge and power to get away, get away anywhere that was not this plane of madness and unreality. He gritted his teeth and focused, focused harder than he ever had, focused harder than he did after his accident where he tried and failed to desperately keep his hands from shaking.
He felt as if he were trapped, unable to run as if stuck in a nightmare. Terrible creatures seemed to be everywhere, watching and waiting, starting to turn their oh-so hungry gazes his way.
A light. Faint in the darkness of whatever terrible realm this was. Strange rushed towards it, the souls of the damned clawing at his cloak, demons closing in with the force of an unstoppable tide. He felt as if he were on a treadmill, unable to get anywhere, simply running in place, stuck as his pursuers closed in. He felt their breath, hot and foul, on his back, started to see horrible talons and teeth…
Then, nothing. He spun. Nothing. No pursuers. No creatures. He fell to his knees, lungs bursting, breath coming in gasps. Panting for a time, he caught his breath, came to his feet, and finally began to look at his surroundings.
He was still in this strange, horrible alternate reality. He could still feel the endless sea of souls swirling beyond whatever this eye in the storm was; still feel the malevolent gazes of horrifying creatures in his peripheral vision. But this part, this calm part, was different.
A blinding, golden light shot up as if from nowhere, keeping the darkness and terror at bay. What was this? How could such a thing be possible? Strange walked forward, his surrounding bare, the great golden pillar of light making sure that no demons trode here. As he walked, he could feel… something. Something emanating from the beam. A single voice, screaming through the void. A soul split and torn, in utter agony, bruised and beaten, bloody but unbowed. Strange felt the voice, mentally reaching out, already far more careful in this place than he was even under reality-searching circumstances.
The voice had been in pain for… millennia now. Pain was a constant companion. Agony was its existence. But it would not give in. Never.
With a start, Strange realized what this golden light was. It was some sort of psychic homing device that acted as a beacon of sanity in the unreality that was this realm. It drove back whatever terrible creatures inhabited this place and served as a guide through this realm. And… and the beam was being produced not by something, but someone. A person. A singular person, of unimaginable capacity and fortitude. Strange shuddered.
The sheer amount of power required to sustain such a thing was utterly unimaginable. Let alone to sustain it for millennia… No wonder the voice was in pain.
Strange looked around once more. He'd seen enough; knew enough. He'd gotten his answers in the most horrible way possible. He had to return.
He retreated, his consciousness moving back to the New York Sanctum, still keeping the light in sight. This was terrible. This was on the level of Dormammu. He didn't know if it was better or worse: frankly, it didn't matter. There was no classification other than really, really, bad.
With no warning, a being of unfathomable power and incalculable malevolence turned its gaze towards him. Strange shied away from it. Now was not the time to trifle with such a thing. He had to escape: had to get back and warn the other sorcerers of his reality.
Time, space, and reality warped around him. Every color, yet no color swirled. Unending sounds, yet no sound, echoed through the void. The being came into focus in front of him. It was ever-changing, morphing from one form to the next with no pretext, each worse and increasingly less conducive to reality or the mortal mind. Strange hid his eyes, bringing up his cloak to shield him. To stare at this… thing, or even to be in its presence for long would be to go mad. In fact, he was already wondering why he wasn't.
The being studied him. It looked at him with amusement, like a child studying a particularly curious insect under a microscope. Then, it spoke.
It was the singular worst thing Strange had ever heard. Constantly changing, with every imaginable pitch, emotion, and inference all at once, it echoed like a nightmare into the void around him. It was a voice that was unreal, something that simply could not exist by any law of the universe.
"The Anathema's pathetic light cannot protect you for long, sorcerer," said the being. Strange wanted to vomit, or maybe implode. Instead, he winced and backed away, shielding his face further.
"What… are… you?" he managed to gasp out. The being laughed. Strange screamed. The laugh echoed around him, promising the being of time, space, and reality as he knew them, always changing and always incomprehensible. The laugh itself was a weapon that could end galaxies, but it was so much more.
"Do not ask which creature screams in the night. Do not question who waits for you in the shadows. It is my cry that wakes you in the night, and my body that crouches in the shadows. I am Tzeentch, and you are the puppet that dances to my tune." Strange pulled back even futher. This was out of his league. He made a motion, and activated his one, final failsafe. His ultimate trump card.
Thank goodness the Infinity Stones had been replaced during the convergence event, and the Time Stone had returned to him.
The locket around his neck opened, and a brilliant green glow danced around him. The power of the Stone wove around him, bathing him in pure, unrestrained time. Before him, the being, Tzeentch, growled, grimaced, screamed, hissed, smiled, frowned, scowled, smirked, frowned, cried, and laughed all at the same time.
"Oh ho! Your pathetic trinket can do nothing here, sorcerer." This was said with the same impossible, dizzying array of emotion and yet no emotion Tzeentch previously employed. Strange winced, valiantly attempting to keep a firm grip on his sanity. "I am time, I am fate, I am Change. You can do nothing here, sorcerer, that has not already been done and will never be done." This time, if Strange could get a hold on what Tzeentch was doing, it was leering at him. "Know that every time you use your power, every time you or anyone else binds the laws of nature to their own whims, I am there, waiting. I will be watching you, little mortal, weaving your destiny and guiding you through fate. So go back, little puppet, and dance to my tune." With one final, horrible, mind-breaking laugh, Tzeentch made a motion, and Strange found himself tumbling through space and time, screaming as unreality engulfed him.
Panting, he looked around wildly. He was back. He was home. The familiar architecture of the New York Sanctum surrounded him. He gasped out a huge sigh of relief. Carefully, he patted the floor where he sat and reached out with his mind to confirm that this was indeed his home reality, in the physical world, in the New York Sanctum, and not some trick. It was. He breathed another sigh of relief.
However… A terrible feeling came over him as he reviewed his last escapade. Why… was he still alive? If a being such as Tzeentch wanted him dead, he would surely be dead. There was no time to prepare and nothing to fight it with. What was more, the very nature of that unreality or being in Tzeentch's presence should have destroyed him.
With a horrible sinking sensation, he realized their were only two reasons he could still be alive: either Tzeentch lied and was inferior to the power of the Time Stone… Or the terrible being had let him go.
He desperately hoped it was the former, though he had the feeling the latter was more likely. Or perhaps it was both? He couldn't say.
All Doctor Stephen Strange did know was that there were terrible things coming. Several of the galaxies had the opportunity to unleash terrible things upon reality. The last one, though… that was the worst.
Strange got up and swiftly walked to the portal that led to Kamar Taj, the headquarters of his order. They had to know. They had to prepare, lest the coming storm swallow them whole.
Even then, he wasn't so sure of their odds.
oOo
There we have it! I hope you all enjoyed. If there are any questions about what happened in this chapter or explanations needed, feel free to ask.
As for the scene with Tzeentch, I'll clear up two things I think a few people might ask: yes, the only reason you can survive a direct one-on-one conversation with a Chaos god is if they allow you to. Secondly, would the Time Stone work on Tzeentch, or would Tzeentch's power overrule it? Well, that's an interesting question for speculation, but it's not going to happen, because the Lord of Fate is careful to make sure such weapons aren't used against him; or if they are, they'll be bent to his purpose…
Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed the story! As always, if you have any comments, questions, criticisms, concerns, or reviews, I'd love to see them!