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Prologue: Verse I - In Which He Fell

The swirling, untangible void warped and stretched me, driving me to the very limit of my senses before pulling me back again, as it did each and every time I jumped.
The sensation never dims, that of reality being pulled away and then slammed back in place so rapidly it jars the senses.

In those times when I was forced to take leave of my senses, I always looked to simpler times, those spent praying in the Fortress Monastery, or inducting the initiates in prayer back on Caliban.
Those young days were a distant memory now.
I remembered this as my reminiscing was broken by the sudden jolt and return to realspace.

I could feel myself floating, slowly drifting downwards as I was pulled into the gravitational pull of the frigid planet that could just be made out in the corner of my visor.
My life has been one of running for longer than I care to remember, but in the smaller details of it, I might take solace, like wondering if I might stumble upon a Chantry at the next destination, where I might learn more of the local saints, or see how the culture reveres our Emperor.

My armour held firm as I hit the lower atmosphere, I knew not how, but it always had.
I had been through this process a thousand times before, yet it always unnerved me, causing me to cling to my Crozius like it might be my only means of slowing the descent.
This was folly, of course, but my Crozius had always offered silent solace, a means to continue serving the Emperor in my own little way, despite the reaching claws of those who pursue me.

Is this all I am now? The distant memory of a time gone by, unremembered and unappreciated by those more ignorant, and pursued as a traitor and heretic by those who ought to know better?
I think...maybe.
I looked up, or down, depending on your perspective, and saw the cold, unwelcoming ground rising up to greet me.
Impact was never kind, even clad in Power Armour as I was.
A harsh snow storm battered me on my way down, tossing me about like an old rag, before flinging me to the floor.
The world spun three times above and beneath me as my trajectory carried me over the millennium-old ice, before finally depositing me roughly in a snowdrift.

I lay there for a long while, maybe hours, maybe more, who can truly say but the Emperor himself, may he still smile upon my broken soul.
Finally I sat up.
I had lost my Crozius on impact, and panic overtook me, then came the tears...
Not many of the Emperor's own Astartes can be moved to tears so easily, but after a lifetime of running alone, any man might cling more eagerly to the few mere possessions he has with him.
In my case, my Crozius, being my holy instrument, was my on assurance that the Emperor still walked with me.
Without it, I am nothing.

I pounded the snow, a guttural cry ringing out into the frozen night as my despair overtook me, until my fist struck something hard.
Hope flared in my heart as I scooped the snow away, carefully excavating my precious instrument of war and reverence both from the unforgiving planet.
I was tired of running, and had been for a long time then, but I kept on, because I must, because the Emperor had surely not abandoned me if he meant for me to find my Crozius.
And so I stood up and kept going, keeping despair at bay as long as I held the large, mace-like weapon in my hand.

The planet I was on had a largely frozen northern atmosphere, a feral environment of predators and prey, though of course I did not know this, wondering aimlessly as I was.
I kept my bearing west, towards several large peaks barely visible through the snow storm.
The despair that once threatened to grip my soul melted away as the snow storm drifted away without my noticing, it was then that I gained the privilege of seeing a ruby-red dawn sky, filling the void of a cloudless sky around an orange sun, newly risen.
"Thank you..." I whispered, removing my helmet with a hiss of pressure release and turning my gaze skyward in the crisp, cool air.

I stooped to look at myself in the glassy surface of the ice.
I saw a grizzled, war-torn and leathery face, laced with scars and wounds, topped with shaven gray hair.
It was always comforting to see my own face after a transition like the one I had just weathered.
It reminded me I was still sane, still Arvanto Argatus.
I stood, looking back to the slowly rising sun, and smiled calmly to myself.

Yes, pleasure in the small things...

I like this. I really like this. It feels more like a poem than a short story, but that might just be the formatting.

I'm glad you like it.
I was trying to capture some essence of poetry with this, to display Arvanto as a man who has evolved from a simple killing machine into something new.
And the Fallen are something I've wanted to write about for a while now.

Now THIS I did enjoyed ! Well done, well done indeed

It's just the beginning, my friend.

As much as I want to work on this, though, I ought to finish working on Mordecai first.