The world was burning, an entire planet turned into a funeral pyre. From both near and far, all round himself he could hear the desperate screams of the pious as they were condemned to a merciless firestorm. Countless millions of faithful souls were begging and pleading for the God-Emperor to save them, but only the crackle of uncaring flames answered them. But though it may be heresy to think it, it was as if the Emperor had turned His face from this place; wether in judgement or shame was the question. He stumbled among the shattered ruins of what had once been a prosperous city, seeing the unending sea of corpses scattered about. They all had met a brutal and often slow end; burnt, crucified, beaten, hung, tortured, or in some merciful cases simply shot. There were women holding their children, obviously trying to protect and comfort them in their last moments. Someone in the robes of a common priest, one of those who most were amongst and served the God-Emperor's people, swayed from where he'd been hung from a illuminator post. Many were bound, with obvious signs of torture before their torment was ended by a shot to the head, battered faces frozen in pained fear. And of course the majority that had been burned alive, their ashes filling the air like gray snow. Some of the charred skeletons were still clutching aquilas that had partially melted into their bones.
Distantly, he heard the shouts and callous laughter of the killers of these faithful; some were even singing in jubilation. Rage filled him at hearing such pride in the butchering of the innocent and faithful, those who had up to their final moments prayed to the God-Emperor for salvation. He dashed in the direction of the voices, seeking out the heretical wretches that had slain the faithful. Amongst the bodies, he started to find the signs of Chaos; the occasional warp spawn or mutant. But they were only in the dozens, a paltry number. The righteous dead were in the billions, with no signs of their having been defended. Where were the Planetary Defense Forces, the Imperial Guard, the Astartes, anyone? Why had these people been left to be slaughtered?
A firestorm of shrieks and screams filled his ears, and he watched as in the distance an entire Hive burst into flames; even from kilometers away the smell of burning flesh filled his nostrils. It was all that he could do not to collapse at the horror he was witnessing, this extreme slaughter of the Righteous. Driven by horror and determination, he pressed forwards, feet slipping over the spilled blood and tripping over the mangled corpses. As he passed through the streets, he would still see new signs of carnage, fresh atrocities to haunt him. The remains of some people were crushed, simply trampled by the panicked crowds trying to flee whatever monster was chasing them. The screams and jubilant shouts were getting closer, though the latter were still unclear. He knew that he was reaching the source of this nightmare. He drew the power sword at his side, his righteous indignation reaching a boiling point. He would avenge these murdered innocents. With a roar, he raced towards the center of this slaughter, turning a corner before stopping in his tracks in disbelief.
Inquisitorial stormtroopers were dragging a young man, no more than forty solar years at most, over to a cross. Beside the crude wooden structure another Stormtrooper stood with a hammer and wickedly long nails in hand. "STOP!" He roared, racing towards them. He could feel how the young man burned with the touch of the Emperor, nothing but righteousness within him. Why was one so faithful being executed?! The Stormtroopers just turned to him, eyes dead behind their masks, before going back to their work mechanically. He raced towards them, desperate to save their victim, but before he could reach them the land changed. Instead of a shattered city street, he was before a pile of the dead, reaching as far as the eye could see; a mountain of death. The corpses of billions were strewn there, and he somehow knew that the cause of all of this was above him. Grimly he began to climb, weeping as he clambered over the slain. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred, the bodies were clearly those of innocents, righteous men and women faithful to the Emperor. He saw Guardsmen, civilians, and even those of the clergy amongst the corpses. Not even the holy Sisters of Battle were spared, and there were even a few of the Emperor's Angels, His Astartes, amongst the dead. Only one percent were seemingly heretics, and most of the time even then he couldn't be sure; they could have just been mutants or abhumans, touched by genetic defect rather than corruption. Most of the bodies carried aquilas or other signs of devotion to the Imperial Creed. But each one of them had unseeing eyes filled with pure horror and shocked disbelief. Finally, after what felt like hours of using the dead as handholds and dragging himself up the mountain of corpses, he reached the top and looked for the monster that had slain these faithful. He was more than ready to remove the head from the heretic's shoulders, weapon ready.
But then he saw just who he was staring at. It was himself; looking older and harder but still clearly him. He sat upon a walking throne, like he was trying to imitate the God-Emperor's eternal vigilance. He was no Psyker, but he could smell the stench of damnation coming from his doppleganger. The dark mirror of himself was covered in golden finery, but every bit of gold was simply gilded; in a spot that was broken, he could see the bloody, rusted iron concealed by the appearance of purity the gilding suggested.
"The next Heretic." The one sitting on the gaudy throne spat at him.
"Heretic?!" He exclaimed, shocked to be declared such and condemned by one who shared his face. But no, it wasn't about him, he had to remember what had drawn him here, the atrocities he'd sworn to avenge. "What have you done to these people?!"
His double sneered coldly at him, madness burning within his eyes. "These heretics have proven their disloyalty to the Imperium and have paid the price. Now… It is your turn." Suddenly, he was wrapped in chains as his counterpart on the mobile throne laughed. The chains looked like those used to bind heretics, but the blessings were written in the blood of innocents. He could hear their faint whimpers, still begging Him on Terra to save them. Above him, his face sneered down and spoke contemptuously in his voice, distorted though it was by insane zeal. "You are charged with interfering with my duties. How do you plead?"
He couldn't believe this, couldn't understand what was happening. "This… this can't be real! I- we are Inquisitors! We are meant to guard the innocent and weed out chaos and heresy, not slaughter the righteous!" He struggled mightily against the chains, trying to get free as he spat out his defiance. "I, Fyodor Karmazov, charge YOU with heresy! For slaughtering the servants of the God-Emperor!"
A twisted smirk grew on his murderous twin's face. "An impersonator daemon. Interesting. Tell me, Daemon, how does it feel to wear the flesh of the righteous?"
His jaw dropped in incredulity that anyone could deem any of this 'righteous'. Strength fled him as he stared dumbly at his own face. "You… you can't be me! I never… I never would slaughter the innocent-"
"There is no innocence!" The other version of himself roared. "There are only degrees of guilt! And if you are before me and have been found guilty of nothing, then you are guilty of wasting my time and are thus guilty of heresy! And you are guilty!" The servitor on the throne turned towards me, aiming a melta-gun. Then… everything froze.
"THIS IS THE PATH SET BEFORE YOU, FYODOR KARAMAZOV. THIS IS WHAT YOU COULD FAR TOO EASILY BECOME." A voice that boomed from everywhere and nowhere shook him, and he fell. He fell down the pile of burnt and mutilated corpses, and landed in the center of a blackened room. Around him was an endless sea of ghosts. Each one was glaring at him, expressions disgusted and accusing even as they glowed with the God-Emperor's holy light.
"I was innocent…" One hissed at him, before another and then another joined in.
"I was nowhere near the heresy…"
"But you killed me regardless."
"But you burned me regardless."
"But you crucified me regardless."
"And you committed heresy through it." At the center was that same young man from earlier, absolutely glowing with the power of the Emperor. He showed signs of incredible torture and burns. He pointed an accusing finger at Karamazov, as they all disappeared and that voice spoke once more.
"TREAD NOT THE PATH OF AMALATHIANISM."
Gasping for air, Lord Inquisitor Fyodor Karamazov bolted upright in his simple yet comfortable bed, eyes wide and sweat beading his face as he murmured under his breath. "The nightmare again…"
Throwing off the covers, he got out of bed and stumbled over to his desk, booting up the inset cogitator out of long practice. Blinking the sleep out of his eyes, he desperately scrolled down the projected list on the datascreen.
Percru's Forge. Secure, the workers willingly going back to the factories once the corrupt governor had been removed, and no signs of any cults or unrest.
Harabius Tertius. Secure, with no signs of a resurgence in the Nurglite cults that he'd rooted out.
Carnirioc's Bastion. Secure, the local PDF being retrained in better tactics and practices that did not invite the attention of the Blood God.
Chemonxrit Six. Secure, cases of mutation going down as new practices were enforced for the planet's chemical plants.
On he scrolled through the list, names almost blurring past his eyes. Each one the name of a planet he had visited, of a world he had saved but just as easily could have damned had he been less than diligent and thorough in his investigations. Whenever he had the dreams, he immediately looked to these, the latest reports from those worlds, to assure himself that they were prospering and hadn't been put to the torch. He had enough Acolytes to accomplish this; he took such care and time on each world he went to, that he was able to find a pair of recruits on each one and give them training. One he would leave behind to monitor their world with a veteran Acolyte also staying to further mentor and train them, while the other would go with him to serve in his retinue and one day become a veteran mentor themselves on some other world. This practice had given him a wide net of informants and agents, all set on ensuring the worlds they were left upon remained safe. Were there any problems or signs of corruption, they knew they could call upon Karamazov. The Lord Inquisitor chuckled as he thought of all this as he reached the end of the list; probably one of the reasons his colleagues didn't simply assassinate him, as his influence was too widely spread.
With a sigh, Fyodor sat back and brought his hands up in prayer as he thought. The first time he had the nightmare, it was when he was still a young Interrogator on the eve of following in his own mentor's footsteps. So shaken had he been that he'd begged time to pray and meditate, with his mentor leaving him behind. When he'd heard later of his mentor's deeds, they had sickened him, reminding him of the nightmare. And what was more, the rest of the Inquisition lauded his mentor as an example to live up to! It was then that he'd sworn to himself and the God-Emperor that he would do anything he possibly could to avoid taking the life of an innocent, to be the shield and protector of the Emperor's citizens. It had not been an easy path, and sometimes he had doubts. But whenever he did, the nightmare would come once more, reminding him of why he walked the path that he did, of what the alternative was.
Fyodor frowned, eyebrows and mustache bristling at the motion. It had been years since he last had the nightmare. He had wondered if he was being too lenient, too merciful when it came to the case of Ciaphas Cain and the 609th Regiment. If it might not be safer just to purge them all rather than risk corruption from a full-blown Favored Daemon Prince. Having the nightmare, as horrible as it was, reassured him of his path. It was better to be as merciful as he could afford to be in his position, because the alternative was worse than heresy.
Knowing he wouldn't soon get back to sleep, Lord Inquisitor Karamazov brought up Inquisitor Vail's notes on the Cain situation, going over them with laser focus. Meeting the Daemon Prince in question earlier had been illuminating and gave him hope that ANYONE could remain faithful to the Emperor, but he still needed to do his duty to the best of his ability. In the morning, he'd begin politely questioning the members of the 609th and carefully testing them for taint, while redirecting Miss Vail to the T'au and Genestealer situations on Gravalax. All of the Psykers he had access to assured him that SOMETHING had been done on the planet, much as it had been done upon Slawkenberg and Perlia. And until he knew what it was exactly, he would inquire, learn, and investigate before drawing a conclusion that was beyond a shadow of a doubt. As an Inquisitor should.