Stone was falling, great chunks of the ceiling and walls, tumbling in a destructive waterfall of masonry and they were moving again, running for Raxan's life through the corridors of the fortress monastery, turns taken by fleeting memories of structures that had crumbled into unrecognizable ruins, disfigured and marred like the banner in his hand.
He clutched it tight even as he ran, the banner unwavering in his hand, a pillar of strength, the reasons he had done what he did at constant war with the atrocities he had committed, the blackened heart of the astartes he had become.
Feet clattered on a floor of a structure almost untouched, a relic seemingly kept in statis from the time before... a time of glory, a time when the scythe's of the Emperor had cut majestically across the stars. A time before shame, before the crippling failure.
He envied the dead, envied that they would sit in honor at the Emperor's side, undefiled by the events that had happened on this world. Others lingered at crypts and coffins, reading names and remembering brothers lost. He mourned no one, remembered no one, they were all blessed to be encased within, far better in there than out here.
He was the last to enter and the first to leave taking his place wordlessly as they filed out on to a scene of bloody murder. Two brothers moved with devastating speed, the 4 hands seemingly united as they twisted and turned, heads crushed to pulp by giants fists, skulls cracking, shards of bone lodged in ceiling and floor.
Raxan was stumbling, half held up by Brother Zeiran yet as he looked upon the pair, he knew everything was going to be alright... it had to be... it just had too
They strode down the ramp of the thunderhawk Izrael still clutching the banner limply in one hand. He turned looking for Brother Solaki yet the form of the dreadnaught was already wandering away.
He had wanted to hand the banner to the dreadnaught, a symbol of the future clutching a symbol of the past was an imagine even the most skeptical could enjoy, could be lifted by. Nothing had changed, about the chapter on that piss-weak excuse for a symbol He had laid his ghosts to rest, done what was necessary and now he was empty, nothing to fight for, left only with the blackness of his own soul, the crippling horror of what was left around him.
He had always seen there situation as crippled and dying, the weakened strength of the suffocating as the life was drawn out of them second by second. He looked at the Brothers striding by, those that knelt, that praised and blessed him for his deeds.
There was strength here... he looked own it his hands at the blood that stained them at the sheer power he possessed in his fingers... he was still here. After all he had been through... after all he had done and tried to do.... he was still standing
The situation may be shit... may be hateful, may stain him for decades, centuries, millenia, yet he was still here, still strong, still learning... still fighting. He had never thought the banner would be recovered, had believed he would go to his grave with that stain upon his heart and his honor, yet it was gone.
He had cleansed what he believed was permanent... could this dishonor be cleansed?
For the first time as he stood before the doors to the chapter master's quarters... he believed.
kudos to lillian thorne for the awesome sig
Last edited by deathbringer; 08-28-12 at 08:04 PM.