Knowledge is Power

‘What kind of god are you?’ the whisper came, strident and purposeful, smashing its way through the silence of the darkened room. A man knelt, his glimmering bronze power armour splendidly adorned, a blade of exquisite design sitting atop a table near him, a bolt pistol holstered upon the floor next to him, for he was in communion with his Lord, and so no weapons were adorned, yet protection was always necessary, for this man had many enemies. He was an inquisitor, one of mankind’s most vigilant and dangerous figureheads, and here he knelt, beneath a golden statue of a throne, a vast, perfect man upon it, his God-Emperor. The Inquisitor knew it was not his place, but after what he had seen and done, he knew. He knew he had to ask such terrible truth’s, for knowledge was power, and only his god could educate him now.

Inquisitor Gao’vna sat in quiet kneeling, his hands clenched into fists, having slowly formed into balls of controlled rage from the initial Aquila form taken during prayer. His power armour was silent, its normal wheezing unheard, such was his stance, bowing to his lord. He had questions, and he would make them known, even if his lord refused to answer. Even his Imperial Tarot had gone dark; it was this first sign that began his plague of doubts, like cancerous worms, eating their way into his heart and soul. He wanted to know. He wanted to understand. As a senior member of the Inquisition, he was entitled to more knowledge then most, and yet, he still questioned. Ignorance was strength, or so his Puritan brethren believed, and yet, he refused to believe that for a moment. So now he asked.

‘What kind of god are you?’ he said, expecting an answer. ‘I know, Lord. I know it all. I know you ignored the signs. You let Horus be turned. You let your sons be turned. You destroyed their brotherhood and exposed them through ignorance to Chaos.’ The accusation hung heavy in the air, and the knowledge again draped itself over the Inquisitor, like the heaviest weight imaginable.

Having recently cleansed a suspected chaos taint from the planet of Magnos IV, he came across works kept by the rebels. Rebels! To even think of the term was unimaginable. For these men and women he had fought had been pure. Only chaos or xenos taints created rebels out of the Imperium’s people, but here, there was nothing, and in a poorly lit room, in the basement of some hovel in the underhive of the capital city, he had discovered their works. He had been about to order them burnt, till finally; one of the books had caught his eye. He knelt forward and briefly ordered his forces to search the remnants of the building, as he read:
‘I am Horus, forged of the Oldest Gods,
I am he who gave way to Khaos
I am the great destroyer of all.
I am he who did what seemed good to him,
And set doom in the palace of my will.
Mine is the fate of those that move along
This serpentine path.’

With great care, he closed the book and gathered it and the rest together. Unknown to him then, was the ultimate value in those tomes. Upon returning with the knowledge gained, he sat and read, his horror growing daily as new discoveries, ten millennia old, wrapped themselves around his already burdened existence. It was the last book he read, the largest of all, that gave him the final pieces of the puzzle. An ancient hand-written book, created by an ancient remembrancer by the name of Yril Sinder. The book was a record of times past, and in terror and rapture, Gao’vna began to read, starting with a crumbled note at the beginning of the novel that had been left in. It read:

‘To those that follow.

Give not in to war, nor temptation, nor corruption. Chaos has ruined us, and we will never stand again. Our Emperor is a broken man, he sits and writhes in horror, his pure soul fighting the hate of the darkness. He walks upon our Earth no more, the traitors saw to that. Mankind has lost the Great Crusade, and shall never start anew, for all is war and fear.

We have been ordered to break down the Astarte’s legions, to individual fighting chapters. Nobody should hold such power again as that of an Astarte's legion, he claims. While my brother is wise, I fear this will weaken us. If we break, Mankind is lost. Yield not to the dark, Worship your Emperor, Fight his enemies, live for all you can, before we are all dust and ash. Man must struggle, if only to prolong its agonising, dying days.

Within this book lies the truth, read it and fear it, for our greatest destruction is written here, the heresy of Horus, once my brightest brother, now lost forever to darkness. Remember this truth, never forget!’

The writer’s name had been torn away, leaving ‘orn’ as the last letters. The Inquisitor vaguely guessed this meant that the letter attached to the tome had been written by Rogal Dorn after the Heresy, most likely after the Scouring, with this last knowledge of such awful and dark days kept in a single tome. The worth of even this simple note was immeasurable. And now, it rightfully belonged to the organisation that could make use of it, or in the very least, control or destroy it.

How it had come to the other side of Imperial space was beyond him, and yet, by the Emperor’s will it had come to his notice. It was on that basis that he believed the Emperor willed him to know what so many others could not. He feared the knowledge, and knew he should not read them, yet he had already come too far to stop. His hands trembling with fear, the Inquisitor continued, and for hours, he read. He read all he could, for days straight, till finally, he finished.

Where once a proud and noble Inquisitor of the Ordos Sanctus existed, now only a broken man stood.

He knew it all now. He understood it all, the sundering of Horus, the shattering of the primarch brotherhood, the coming of Chaos, the destruction of man. The Emperor had organised it all. These dark and ancient tomes explained it all, from man and un-mankind’s perspectives, the end of everything. Chaos would envelope reality, and mankind’s proud rotting carcass of an Imperium would be annihilated. The Emperor had planned it all, built up the empire from strife, and lead it on to conquer it all again, only to lose it again in the Heresy, to regain it in the Scouring, and finally, it would be lost again. Once more, for all time.

For the next three days, he prayed diligently, his twisted and burdened heart bleeding out to the precious, beautiful golden statue, and for three days, he received no answers. His servants began to worry, and one made the foolish attempt to rouse him from his prayers after he had refused food and water for 18 hours. Whip-fast, the Inquisitor drew his blade and split the servant from head to toe. There hadn’t even been time for it to scream. Time slowed for a half-second, till finally the blood sprayed and spattered over the Inquisitor, and the golden throne. Angrily, he ordered the room cleaned. The next person to go near him or the Emperor however, would share another bladed, ignoble death.

Another 24 hours later, he had his answer. Clotted blood matted him from head to waist, and had dribbled from the golden edges of the Emperor and his throne till finally only a bloody bronze hue remained where the vitae had dried. He had kept a hold of the bloodied sword, its blade shining crimson in the dim light. He was alone, deeming his servant’s an unworthy presence during his prayer and ordering them not to interrupt till he admitted them himself. A white light began to appear, to blow up inside his vision, and his blade began to heat up, his hand incapable of relinquishing its agonising grip. Yet, his body felt at utter peace, angels sang, and he began to see…something.

Suddenly, fits seized him, his body thrashed and spasmed and his throat let out a low, growling scream from the depths of hate and knowledge as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and his body hung limply in a vice, his arms maintaining their thrashing. The burning blade was finally mercifully released, the Inquisitor’s arm spasming backwards and unwilling throwing it towards a wall where it remained embedded, the white hot blade smoking where still moist blood evaporated from its surface. Finally, the Emperor showed him everything.

1 second. That’s all it took to see and know. To comprehend and interpret. To conceive and understand the existence, vision, and purpose of a dead god.

Control and senses restored, Gao’vna screamed.

He screamed with all his might.

He screamed till his blood burned, his body stiffened, his lungs nearly burst and his mind blacked out.

Several days later, he was found by members of his staff. Inquisitor Gao’vna had taken his own life. Messily, it appeared. They had first reacted in shock and summoned the Arbites to attract the Inquisition’s attention, before promptly regaining their immediate sense and complaining at the cleanup procedure and how long it would take with the Inquisitor having still been in his heavy power armour.

The Arbites and Inquisition could find little reason why the Inquisitor had killed himself in his own home, much less how. Fully armoured, somehow the Inquisitor had forced his own blade through centimetres of ceramite into his vitals, twisting and turning, all the while with its vibration cell active, pulping his innards into a red mass of liquefied gore. It appeared he had lain against the floor, his life bleeding from him, with a rictus of utter horror upon his features. He had died in utter, manic terror.

It made no sense. What could terrify an Inquisitor? Let alone a senior Inquisitor, one of the fearless knights of the Imperium? In the end, the prospect of suicide was over-ruled, and instead assassination had been labelled as the cause of death, despite the lack of signs of any type of assassin nearby and the murder weapon at the scene having been clenched in the Inquisitor’s own hand, although a smouldering pile of ashes also made it appear somebody had burned the Inquisitors most recently collected tomes, which instantly smacked of the intent of an assassin, trying to keep certain knowledge away from the Inquisitor, leading credit to assassination.

The only other detail that confused the death was the golden statue. Somebody had hacked its head clean from its shoulders. A perfect cut, at a 45 degree angle across the neck, the bronze head had landed smoothly on the floor, looking up in mute pleading to anyone looking down upon it, its mouth twisted into a horrified grimace of utter anguish and pain.

And a thousand light years away, on another golden throne, another statue of flesh sat, a single dry tear emerging from dead flesh to illusion life, before vanishing, in remembrance of a time terrible for even a god to remember.