C'Tan Chimera: A Wretched Silence Examined
You can never comprehend. You will never know what I have tried so hard to forget.
I speak to you now in the body, the rippling surge of matter against matter. My eyes cannot speak for me. My mouth does not move. Only this occupation of space, this metal skeleton can create any expression. The expressions found within the flesh; the gashes, lacerations, gaping holes and carved skin.
You will never know what I feel, what I have spoken; the same words we sowed across Oblivion eons ago. Those words have blossomed into essence upon the universe it sprouted from. Hatred. Weakness. Pain. Genocide. Since the beginning we have thirsted for so much more then what we were. We hungered for that just barely beyond our grasp. We would never have made it this far had we not been gorged on that which one can only find at the bottom.
Hatred kept our will alive. When all else failed to make our blood surge with purpose, it nurtured us and weaned us like a twisted mother.
Weakness kept our ambition alive. The shame that dwelled within, the guilt of unfulfilled destiny brought us forward, one foot after another.
Pain kept our bodies alive. It was our discipline, the reminder of our failures and that we were still alive, if only barely by its fickle definitions.
Genocide kept our race alive. It unified us under one desire. If we couldn’t overcome our fate, Genocide would allow us to drag everyone else down to our level for company of misery.
Yet I know you do not understand this. You do not understand that which I unceasingly try to show each of you as I reach out for you. I understand that no amount of blood spilled and bones broken can ever convey a tangible idea, a message that may be understood universally. Yet I try anyway if only to justify my actions, no matter how weak it really is.
Some things cannot be understood, much like what I desperately try to convey. They have taught your kind that death is a blessing…But for all the wrong reasons. In the end, everything is supposed to die. No matter how briefly or no matter how long, everything dies. Time itself is the only permanent, yet it dares not mingle with the abominations we have become. I am neither alive, nor am I free from the confines of the material plain.
I have become Death Itself. That thin scythed blade that serves as the dividing line between the trillions alive and the innumerable dead. My brethren have been It for so long that they no longer even think of it, let alone anything else. Days slipped into months and months into years. Years became centuries and centuries became seconds. Even the seemingly immortal aspect of time has faded from my comprehension altogether. My condemnation and the agony of its burden will never end for time has lost all meaning. I am the referee between life and death, constantly judging but alone and unable to take part in either role ever again. My brothers have suffered likewise, but I still envy them.
They have lost all drive, all meaning, all awareness. They are no longer even the echoes of the ancient hatred that sill resonates within their empty sockets. Only I remain, and only I know that I lead them to become these pitiful husks. I envy them, if they can even be thought of as entities any longer. I envy their liberation from the self imposed definitions of this universe.
They are just grisly toys. But at least they will never know how far they have fallen; how much they’ve let their ancestors down when they once promised them they knew how to save them from pain and suffering. I was not so lucky. I trudge on alongside them, leading them forward into the eternal harvest.
They may never be sentient again and thus never hold judgment, but that which I hold upon myself is enough. The doom of my entire race sags against these tired metal shoulders. It slowly but patiently erodes my conscience, my dignity, my once impenetrable denial. Like damnable waves it seeps its way into every corner, every crevice and every hollow of my being. That which Time itself cannot physically wear down, this Guilt does for it.
Perhaps your leader feels just like I do as this legion’s master. We both had our thirsting to stand above all else. We fought long and hard, just to be trapped within this material prison and forever be unable to escape it. Ambition has given away to the stagnation of eternity, and to fully understand that it has no end is to abandon hope. We both watch over our kind, desperate to save them from the mindless slavery they have willingly undertaken. Yet we are no longer truly your masters. Rather, we are merely sad reminders of our races undertakings. We have taken different roads and used different methods to reach the same destination at different times.
It may be impossible to win that pointless mortal game, yes. I once took my role in it but knew not what I had. What we had. We had an experience and we cared not for it but the destination at its end.
You see me loom before you and know Death. It’s a gift that I may give but will never receive no matter how many times I am struck. All that thirst so long ago was sated and was never enough. It’s simpler than ever before yet all but impossible. All I want now, after so much, is to scream. I just want to scream one last time. I know I have lost. I know I can never be freed from what I have forged for myself. I just want to let it all out before I continue about my impossible task.
I just want to scream.
Yours will have to do.