Congratulations, by being chosen by the Emperor of Mankind himself to be at his side; to the Imperium of Man you are now considered a living Saint.
There are statues of you across Terra, there are Chapels blessed with your name littered all across Imperial Worlds across the galaxy. Many pray to you so that their words and desperate pleas in these times of crisis may reach the Emperor faster to save them.
You are someone of utmost importance - and arguably the most safest person in the Imperium. If something were to wish harm upon you countless of worlds will face the threat of Exterminatus before such vile threat can even see you, much less even touch a single strand of hair on your head, your husband has seen to it and has declared so.
A pair of Custodes are always at your side, no matter the significance of your travels, you always will be protected. While your detractors - in hushed whispers, never brave enough for their words might hit the wrong ear to put their lives at risk - might label them as nothing but sitters and watchers over the Emperor's 'plaything' that couldn't be further from the truth as the long years of your extended life have become they are your faithful companions, after all you are above the Commonfolk now, your safety in the public isn't guaranteed so these golden men and women are your closet company and as you as the Second to the Emperor they are more than willing to die for you as well.
You know a side to the Emperor that only a handful of people do, or could even fathom having - the only other being Malcador who has long since helped advise you both in your role as Imperial Consort and provided moral support; such importance can be very overwhelming at start and will never stop, it's about learning control and maintaining a clear head with it. But no, you didn't just know the Emperor - you knew the man. To you he wasn't some untouchable figure, he wasn't some god or deity to drop down and worship, he was a man. The man had a name, desires, passions, wishes, dreams. Just like any other. You knew him better than the whole Imperium he ruled did. He was larger than light, don't get yourself wrong, but he was much more than what you look down and see mankind praise him as. He was so much more than that. Even with his strength, his powers, his might he was still human - and that's what made him so suited to rule. He grabbed something in people, encouraged and inspired. He was truly something great but he was so much more than that to you. He was just a man.
A man that sometimes would get to bashful to hold your hand.
A man that would stare at you for long periods without realising your looking.
A man who would steal you away so that the two of you, arm in arm, can calmly stroll through the palace gardens.
A man who could sing, sing melodies of times long past in different dead tongues just because they reminded them of you.
A man that got so riled up over the thought of someone possibly hurting you.
A man that could rest his head in your lap at night, lost in pondering thought of what he could've done different.
A man Imperial Text's did not describe.
A man with a name no one dare speak.
A man you did not recognize sat bolted to that Throne, just his remains the courts praise to.
A man long gone for thousands of years.
After your husband's death do you completely take a step back, such grief you feel can't be described, you loose yourself for years, decades, centuries. The High Lords of Terra come to be, all giving at first genuine condolences but as time and generations past does the corruption set under your nose - but for thousands of years you are too lost to do anything of it.
Until Roboute comes back.
One of your husband's children. Seeing him alive is what kicks your reality back in. These past ten thousand years have been wasted, rotted. For feel a great shame but you root for change.
Roboute, as Imperial Regent, as much on his shoulders to bare. Keeping the Imperium together is a very taxing feat and while he is such an intelligent man, much like his father, and none other could serve such a position in competence - sometimes when he gets the rare chance to break away from the frontlines does he make trips to Terra to seek your council, your opinions, your advice of harkened past words you remember of his Father, your comfort.
Sometimes he doesn't know exactly what to say to you, other times he does right down the the syllable - his father use to be the exact same, he was more of him in him than he realizes though all of his sons' did in some shape or form. But in Roboute it was a tad more obvious, it makes you more glad such role was given to him, it suits him greatly.
But... when you speak there is this sense of... something not being address, wrap your head in it as much as you can you can't figure it out. There is something the Thirteenth son isn't saying, purposefully unsaying, it hangs heavy in the air every time his father is brought up. You don't push him, of course not, but you do wonder if one day... one day he'll open up about it.
Ozymandias - Emperor of Mankind x Fem!Reader: Chapter Two
Cowritten with @absynthe-mind. PLEASE make sure to read all the TW/tags for this-- it's going to be diabolical.
A/N: This one is dedicated to @omg1wanttidd1es-sb who made this beautiful fanart!!! We were gonna wait but could not resist.
This fic is cross-posted on AO3.
Chapter Masterpost
Chapter One
TW for this chapter: canon typical violence, graphical depictions of torture, mental anguish, imprisonment, dead dove: do not eat, alcohol mention
Chapter 2: the hand that mocked them
You wake the next day with that stubborn flame of determination stoked in your belly. You are a part of the Order, dammit. You’re not going to be cowed by someone who’s locked in chains.
You ignore the way you’d left trembling yesterday, clutching the handle of the wagon, hoping that your iron grip doesn’t betray how shaky you are.
You made it back to your room in one piece, and it doesn’t matter that you cried for the first time in a long while, or that you curled up under the covers and cried even more. It doesn’t matter that tears dripped down your face and onto your pillow, and your shoulders shook as you tried to keep the sobs quiet.
It doesn’t matter because by the time your bunkmate returns, you’re asleep, and no one is the wiser.
You are too deeply asleep to wake from your own mumbling, for all it keeps your bunkmate up. Murmuring about how he stares at you, begging him to stop, pleading for him to stop tormenting you.
When Serayne gets back she goes to wake you and stops short when she sees you twisting and turning, covered in a thin sheen of sweat.
She would wake you now, raise you from this nightmare that traps you, but she knows better than any that you’d never get back to sleep. Exhaustion is written into every line of your face, and if you’re going to be in anguish awake or asleep, you’d be better off at least getting some rest.
When you wake you are tired but resolute in your determination, and you get to the antichamber connecting to the Emperor’s earlier than normal.
Apparently, the commanding officers of the Order have decided that you’re not a threat, as Samson is only there to hand you a set of keys this morning.
You question him and he shrugs.
“I’m not babysitting anymore– I think you’ve got the gist of the job down,” he leans forward, “Although between you and me, you have much better self control than I do.”
“What?” you ask, eyebrows scrunching in confusion.
Samson grins– you see his mouthful of perfectly intact teeth– and he says, “If it were up to me… he’d had more damage all the time. But it’s good that you give him a break. The peace amps it up for the next time, you know?”
There’s a creeping sense of horror that crawls up your back, but your ally claps you on the back. This time you don’t stumble, bracing yourself.
He beams, “Good luck! I’ll see you around.” Samson strides away, leaving you and your cart alone.
What the hell was that?
The locks are easy enough to open, having seen it done dozens of times before now, and you swing the door open.
But this time, he isn’t sitting. The swing bars that the chains are attached to have been moved so his arms are forced high above his head, his wrists pinned together slightly behind him, and he’s kneeling on the floor, the constraints on his ankles pulled tightly to keep any slack from giving out.
He’s closer to the light than usual, and you wince. But he’s been moved off his usual corner, so you think that maybe you could try and clean the mass of blood off the floor where he usually occupies.
It’s the worst by far over there, having not yet been cleaned once, and where he has created the most ‘mess’ too.
You scurry around the room, doing your normal activities first. It’s odd that there aren’t any new visible injuries, you think– until you bring your mop behind the man and turn to look. There’s a clattering of the handle on the floor as you stand there, mouth agape as you stare at the horrifying lash marks on his back.
The muscles have been ripped and torn, the skin peeled back to reveal raw flesh beneath. Thick strips cover every inch of available space, some at the edges are heavily raised welts, others weeping, but most are bleeding with freely exposed muscle showing through and flecks of white you think are bone.
Wincing isn’t enough, you have to completely avert your gaze away from the mangled mass of viscera. It takes a few minutes before the world stops spinning as you fall to your knees and try not to vomit. The scent you’d grown so used to is sickening again and burns your nose.
Eventually the world stops fading at the edges and you get some control over your seizing throat. Your hands are spread flat against the tiles, thankfully the mostly mopped ones, but the water is tinged pink and you’re touching it.
His blood is on your hands now.
You lift them rapidly, dunking them in the bucket of fresh water and soaking the ends of your sleeves, but you don’t care, you just need to get it off.
Your hands are clear but you leave the room for a new bucket of fresh water anyways and repeat your actions, scrubbing with an entirely new brush until your hands are raw. Until your breathing eases.
Today’s work isn’t done. You need to go back and finish the job. Slacking is not an option when it seems like they’ve moved him specifically so you can clean that spot.
It’s half an hour's work to steel yourself to the task, but you do it. You go back in.
It hasn’t gotten any better, and you have no idea why you thought it would be. If anything it’s worse and you have to work quickly to wipe away the faint handprints on the tile before you meltdown again.
Your back faces the massive figure, and you scrub away at the floor. There’s a good chunk of time in which you’re busy scraping what you think might be clumps of dried flesh off the floor, and the vomiting sensation returns. You try to steady yourself on the wall, attempting to shove down the feeling of acid creeping up your throat.
It works slightly, and you manage to get through the entirety of your task without vomiting. You stare up at the wounds again, and then have to avert your eyes while gathering up your supplies.
“S-see you tomorrow,” you say as you go to exit the door– entirely out of habit.
There’s no reply behind you as the door clangs shut. You grip your arm and remind yourself of everything the Emperor has done. Everyone he’s killed.
Samson’s words echo. The Order’s manifesto replays through your mind. The screams of your loved ones haunt you.
He deserves this.
Doesn’t he?
Sleep comes easier, but at the cost of your dreams.
There’s fire around you. You stumble as you run through the burning wreckage of trees. The former giants creak and sway with the force of being burned by the ships of the Imperium. Great trunks that have stood for generations upon generations reduced to ruin in mere moments.
Your heart is racing as you run, legs pumping as fast as you can make them. Ash and smoke fill your lungs as you go, and you have to squint to keep your vision clear. The smoke keeps you half blind, and you fall over a branch that’s just fallen.
Screeching, you bat away the fire, trying to tamp them down to keep them off your clothes. You cannot afford to go up in flames as well– not when you can hear your mother’s cry in your head, the comforting words of your brother and a final goodbye from your father. They’ll only live on in you, and so you have to make it. You have to live. It’s only fair.
It’s only fair.
You manage to scramble upwards, heaving yourself along the trail. There’s a small clearing at the end that isn’t ringed with the orange flames that bite at your heels, the scorching heat searing you through your clothes. Finally making it to the end, you collapse onto the grass and wheeze and cough. The smoke follows you, but as your vision clears, you see a pair of boots standing in front of you, waiting.
Wobbling to a kneeling position, you slowly look up. And you realize with a dawning horror that an Imperial soldier is in front of you. He’s wearing a massive overcoat that splays out like wings from an angel of death.
The man pulls a cigar from his mouth and smiles, “Hello there, rebel tree scum. We were wondering when we’d flush one of you out of the brush.”
You open your mouth to respond, and then everything goes black as something hits the back of your head.
You wake with a gasp, snapping upright as you try to make out your surroundings. Your fingers curl in the sheets, feeling their worn texture as you try to ground yourself. The smoke still curls in your nostrils, the acrid smell lingering. But there’s no fire here– only on the charred corpse of your homeworld so far away from Terra.
Flopping back down onto the bed, you try to go back to sleep, but it eludes you. You wind up simply staring at the wall across from your bed. There’s a couple of nightstands there– but you hardly use yours. Serayne has things scattered across hers, and a few photos haphazardly taped to the wall. Those people smile at you in the dark, and you avert your gaze.
Your nightstand is barren. There’s a few hygiene products within it, but so far as personal items– you don’t have any. The one thing you have left of your home is a necklace you wear constantly. The weight of it soothes you, and you fiddle with it, running your thumb over the smooth surface. It’s been worn from that motion, but there’s a cypress cone embalmed within your pendant. You’d gotten it from one of the trees you’d been climbing since you were a child.
Serayne snores from above you, and you’re very glad that you decided to take the bottom bunk. It lets you get out of your room without disturbing her as you go to get something to drink. You shrug on some clothes and stagger into the hallway.
It’s early. So early in the morning that there’s hardly anyone but you awake. You’ve decided that the normal drinks won’t cut it, and head to the dining hall. Cool air hits your face as you cross through the quad on your way over, ignoring the covered pathway and trudging through the mud stained grass instead.
You take a deep breath as you go, trying to clear your head. It’s still fuzzy this early, but walking has always helped with your nightmares.
There’s a few people in the dining hall– there always are. The base you’re on is one of the biggest in the Order, if not considered a main base. Admittedly, there are less people now that patrols weren’t needed as frequently. Most of the soldiers are stationed on the side of the base with the prisoners, but a few are scattered around the other side. You’d question it, but you’re not one for a military mind.
“What are you doing awake?” a voice jars you out of your stupor, and you look over. You struggle to recall his name, but you’re faintly certain it’s something with a D…
Darian, maybe? You’ve only spoken once.
You realize you may have been silent too long, and blurt, “Couldn’t sleep. I thought I would try a walk.”
He looks down at your cup and snorts, “And a mixed drink?”
What can you say? You shrug, and take a sip. It’s horrible– the acrid taste of alcohol burning your tongue over the sweetness of juice. But the fire seeps into your veins, dissipating into a bit of sleepiness.
“I’ll be right as rain by wakeup,” you grin at him. “Goodnight.”
You depart back to your room, and the meager contents inside the cup vanish by the time you arrive at your destination. You close your eyes, feeling the warmth in your chest that spreads to your limbs.
You try to shake the feeling you’d been watched on your little outing.
You do not dream again.
The sound of the wakeup call rings in your ears, and you groan. At least your concoction worked, you think to yourself as you roll out of bed already dressed. You smooth the wrinkles out, and begin your trek to the supply closet. You’d noticed that one of the common areas had a ridiculous amount of gum underneath the tables– where it was coming from, you weren’t sure. But it was going to bother you regardless, so you pull out the necessary tools (a scraper and a bucket), and head off.
Usually they come to get you for the cell in the early afternoon, so it strikes you that it’s odd that they haven’t. You’ve managed to get almost all the gum off the tables and into your bucket when you’re approached from the left as you’re hacking away at a particularly stubborn bit. Your head swivels, and you see a sergeant with a neatly trimmed haircut standing beside you.
“Hello,” you greet, rising from your kneeled position.
He gives you a curt nod, then informs you, “You’re on patrol to clean up the city.”
Blinking, taken aback by the change, you ask, “The city?”
“Yes. There’s Imperial propaganda that needs to be taken care of.”
Oh. Alright then.
You’re relieved for the change of pace but something uneasy churns in your gut. Tomorrow will be rotten to clean if today’s agenda is so bad they don’t want you in there. A not so small part of you never wants to go back in there if it can be helped.
Shaking the thoughts away, you get the information on where you’re meant to be, and head off to go make your preparations.
A shift like this was a long one, but a fun one.
Fresh air away from base, a small team together for ‘safety’ that actually meant good banter as you worked to erase the everpresent propaganda that sprawled across every corner of the planet.
Of course, it was each citizen's duty to remove what they could, but there was just so much of it.
Statues, posters, paintings, shrines - every imaginable avenue of art littered every garden, were carved into every gothic arch, imposing into every aspect of life. It was impossible to escape the gaze of the Aquila.
For now at least.
With the sheer amount of work there were dedicated shifts just to clearing it when there was nothing more urgently pressing.
There were some things that took too long to remove, glued down too strongly or just not worth the effort. That was where they gave you posters produced by the Order to cover it.
‘Unity and Peace - A life free of torment!’ was the title of the poster you were plastering over an infomatic on how to sign up your newborn sons to your local legion. The art of it depicted baseline humans toppling a statue of a cruel looking marine that was pointing, large and in command. Ropes that looped over stone and a team that toppled something that seemed insurmountable.
A layer of glue is pasted onto it and you slap it down with a faint smile as your comrades crack jokes from the back.
You needed this.
The base comes back into view in the wee hours of the morning, the truck pulling into the garage. It’s not fuel efficient to send a team out for short trips, even if it means you get back in late. Your group hops out on tired legs, and you begin the process of putting all the gear back. Thank goodness they didn’t make you take a gun– you didn’t envy the paperwork needed to return it.
Everyone bumps fists and chug the last of the drinks you’d gone out to get as a team, before you each say good night and split to separate bunks with the promise of a later start for your efforts.
When your head finally hits the pillow, it’s early in the morning.
And when they knock on the door to wake you up, it’s earlier still. Serayne groans from above you.
“Who’s at the door at this hour?” she slurs, still half asleep.
You’re still half asleep, so you grumble in response, trying to pull your thin blanket a little further over your shoulders and snuggle into your bed. The knocking comes again, more insistent this time.
“Heaven’s sake,” your roommate curses at you, saying your name loudly, “Answer the door!”
The unfortunate duty of the bottom bunk– you’re closer to the ground. You pry yourself from your warm nest and open the door, rubbing sleep from your eyes.
“Hello?” you say, blinking rapidly to adjust to the light in the hallway.
It’s Samson. He’s in his usual outfit, but seems a tad bit more tired than usual. You could relate to that, at the moment.
“They need you to come do cleanup,” he tells you. “It’s already unlocked for you.”
You stare at him, eyes scrunching in confusion, “Now…?”
“Yes, now.”
You agree with only a slight grumble, forsaking what was meant to be your extra sleep.
Clothes on, and you forgo breakfast to get your things faster– you’re not entirely sure if the Commander would be alright with you eating first. It wasn’t like the Emperor was going anywhere, but you don’t want to make the man in charge of the base upset.
There’s hardly anyone up again at this hour, so you only pass one person in the hallway on the way to the supply room. Everything is organized exactly the way you left it.
The lineup of doors in the prison ward still brings you some level of anxiety, and even more as you slowly open the door for your intended location. You walk in fully, cart in tow as you shove the door open. The cell is… oddly still.
There was never much movement from its inhabitant, but today his head is bent at an unusual angle, and the air hangs oddly. The faint smell of rot, though from where you’re not sure. You know what corpses smell like– but the Order wouldn’t make you clean the room of a corpse.
You think, anyway.
There’s a sickening squelch sound from underneath your foot. Your eyes are still on the chained man on the wall, and you slowly look down. A scream almost comes through your throat, but you stuff it down and produce a strangled noise instead. There’s chunks of meat on the floor– part of an organ, if you had to guess.
You don’t want to guess.
Now that your attention has been drawn to the floor, you actually look around you. There’s half dried pieces scattered all around, now that your eyes have adjusted. You’d wonder where they came from, but you get the sneaking, horrifying suspicion that you know precisely their origin.
Fine. You’ll just scrape that up too. Trying to ease yourself into the gore, you try to compare it to the gum on the tables. The stench tells you otherwise.
You curse a little as you go to work, trying to rehydrate what’s stuck to the floor so you can pry it up. It’s disgusting– you’d known it would be, but it doesn’t make it any easier.
The curtain of matted black hair catches your eye more than usual. Not only is it raggedly covering more of his face but it’s rife with bits of blood and flesh that haven’t yet dried. You can see the shine of liquid on it even in the dim lighting.
You’re too busy contemplating what has happened, not focusing enough on your feet that the mop stick trips you up. There’s no one to blame but yourself, and you barely manage to avoid another tangle with the floor by catching yourself on the cart.
Instead, you send everything else careening across the room, clattering against the floor, walls, sending your water buckets spilling and splashing everywhere. The sound is deafening for a moment as metal and ceramic collide and smash all at once, so loud you’re sure a few tiles have cracked with your stupidity.
Fuck.
You take a moment to make your legs cooperate and support your weight, eyes closed for a moment as you come to terms with how much extra work you’ve given yourself.
Tilting your head back and coming back to yourself as with one last clack the final tin— probably the small one filled with gritted paste— finally stops rolling away from you.
But silence doesn’t fall.
A noise had been covered by the huge crash, but now everything was over, it becomes distinct.
The sound of faintly rattling chains, caused by the violently shaking muscles of the Emperor.
His head has snapped towards you– or maybe the commotion that you’d made. Then your gaze finally lands upon the grisly reality in front of you, and the acid in your stomach threatens to rise. Gooseflesh ripples up your arms as you’re rooted in place.
This has to be a nightmare, with how his hollowed face stares at you. Or rather, doesn’t.
He looks directly at you, through your soul, and you will never be able to rid yourself of the impression of him in this moment searing into your brain.
They’d taken his eyes.
Left in their place was fleshy emptiness– hollowed sockets with the ends of the optic nerve shriveling up as it lay outside its home. There’s the feeling that you’re being watched anyway, despite the lack of eyeballs. Scratches litter around his sockets, some digging in further than others and it looks like someone simply went at him with a mostly dull instrument and a mission. Your heart stutters, and you can’t look away.
Asides from his tortured face, his whole body screams of agony, covered in smaller lacerations and contorted inwards as far as the chains would allow while he shudders. There’s a smell that hits your nose as you’re on the floor, the water seeping into your clothes.
That’s when you remember that the water that’s gone everywhere is full of bleach.
Fuck. Fuck.
And in dawning horror, you realize that there’s water dripping off his body, smearing the chemical into the wounds. Your brain finally kicks into gear so you can think of something to do about the situation, but all you can hear is the shaking of the chains, and see his chest rising and falling shallowly. Your hangnails hurt badly enough whenever they accidentally come into contact with the solution, and you can only imagine the agony it would be to have it dumped into fresh, deep injuries.
You have to fix this– you can’t leave him like that. A part of you wishes you would– to let him suffer, feeling the fire of chemicals in his blood the way that they had wreaked havoc on your homeworld, sent by his hand.
But the other side of you, the one that had nurtured birds back to health and helped to repair trees in the winter months before the spring would solidify the damage– that side could not walk away. So you’re caught in an internal war as you stare at him. The Emperor, at the very least, seems to be aware that you’re there.
“Is nothing enough for your lot?” comes the raspy, hissing voice of the man before you. His chest heaves, and you can see the grit of his jaw as you presume he works through the pain.
You finally manage to get to your feet, but the Emperor sneers at the noise. The nubs of white are gone again, revealing only bloody gums.
He gives a ragged chuckle, then contemptuously comments, “Truly, you are not better than my ‘Imperial scum’.”
White hot rage shoots through your veins at that, the arrogance despite his situation, but your feet are already moving to the door.
A new bucket makes it under the tap in record time, and you slam on the taps until water is flowing as fast as it possibly can. You storm back into the room with it sloshing over the edges from your quick and uneven gait, creating a small trail as you go.
Not to mention the Emperor, whose chains rattling could be heard from down the hallway, now that there’s nothing blocking the sound. It quiets down as your uneven footsteps approach the room, water getting on your shoes and adding to your damp clothes.
The door is ajar as you make it back, arms screaming from carrying the heavy pail. You curse as the light shines on the thrice damned mess you’ve made of the room.
His head snaps in your direction, his teeth bared and gritted as you clumsily enter the room. There’s a sense of dread that builds in your stomach as you approach.
Just leave him.
Dump the water and go.
Let him suffer.
Clean your mistakes.
Wipe the ledger clean.
The muscles in his legs clench as you gently flush the cuts.
“I didn’t mean to,” you say, gently patting them. The tone you use is similar to the one you’d used while patching up mild injuries, back when you were a medical apprentice. You know it has to hurt.
“Of course not,” is the snarkily growled response, followed by a muffled hiss as the cloth you’re using scrapes over the cuts on his leg. Admittedly, it was harsher than you’d intended.
Resentment builds again, but you stuff it down — focused on rectifying your mistake so you can go finish your actual task. You have more important things to do than talk to him.
There’s no more talking other than the sloshing of water in your bucket as you move to his other side, and you scowl as you see the amount of dirt that comes off him. You haven’t even gotten everything— just the first layer of grime. Of course, with the state of everything else in the cell, it probably shouldn’t have been a shock.
But as you continue on, your mind wanders to the statue you’d seen of him out on your excursion. Different from the man that’s in the cell with you— a picture of the pinnacle of humanity, staring down at the citizens of the Imperium with indifference. Because none of you will ever live up to what he is.
You finally finish, and you stand all the way up, stretching.
He doesn’t thank you, not that you should expect him to thank you for washing off the bleach you spilled onto him in the first place. You try not to think about the agony you caused, but then a worse thought comes to you, unbidden:
You hadn’t left him like that.
You helped him.
The thought that this was probably the first ‘kind’ gesture he had received since his capture is not lost on you, the idea repeating like a mantra over and over while you worked to finish off the rest of the room as quickly as you could to make up for lost time.
Picking up strewn supplies, you finally get the rest of the room back in order, ignoring the way his head follows your sounds as you trundle around the room and try not to cause any more damage.
Don’t look at him, don’t look at him, don’t look at him.
Pausing at the door, your fingers grip a little tighter on the frame.
“I- I- …see you tomorrow.”
Then you’re gone.
As you lock up the door behind you, his marred face flashes in your mind. Eyeless sockets bore into you almost as if he could see anyway, in spite of the gouging. Your hands shake as you click the last of the security measures closed.
The walk back is spent wondering how much more he can possibly take. What more can they even do to torture a man who has lost everything?
You’re not sure you want to find out.
But that choice was never yours to make.
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Ozymandias - Emperor of Mankind x Fem!Reader: Chapter One
Welcome to my newest brainrot!!! Cowritten with @absynthe-mind. PLEASE make sure to read all the TW/tags for this-- it's going to be diabolical.
This fic is cross-posted on AO3.
Masterpost
Summary:
The Imperium has fallen after the Heresy, and the People have risen up to take the Emperor's place.
You are a janitor on the main base, minding your own business until the Commander informs you that they need someone to clean a cell. Turns out the inhabitant is the former Emperor himself-- chained up and beaten.
Conflict wars in your head. On the one hand, he deserves this-- he burned your planet, killed your friends and family and committed countless crimes. On the other...well, your mother always had said your heart was too soft. You really need to stop thinking about this so hard.
TW for this chapter: canon typical violence, graphical depictions of torture, mental anguish, imprisonment, dead dove: do not eat
Chapter One: half sunk, a shattered visage lies
The Imperium fell in your lifetime. You didn’t think that you would be there to see it, but you were. The Neoimperialist group you were with had swooped in to gain power in the burning wreckage that the Horus Heresy had wrought upon the galaxy. It was within that group that you had been taken in, and given a new purpose. Admittedly, it wasn’t a glamorous purpose, but it was a purpose nonetheless - one you were happy to fulfill.
You were a cleaner– and a very effective one at that. Some might say that the work was tedious, but you took pride in it. It was rhythmic, and besides that it gave you a lot of things to do. The station you were at was large– there were many rooms to be cleaned. What you didn’t appreciate was your fellows dirtying the hallways that you just mopped.
Which is what you’re staring at with contempt when Samson comes to get you.
“The floor won’t bite, I think,” is his snarky commentary upon seeing your glare at the floor.
Someone had spilt the entirety of a beer on your clean ground and then left it there, glass and all.
You sniff, then respond, “It might. I need to be ready.”
He snorts and gives you a hard pat on the back. You grip the mop a little tighter as you stumble forwards with the force of it. Samson laughs good-naturedly.
“Sorry, I forget that you base-only types aren’t trained like the rest of us,” he says.
“It’s fine,” you inform him, before going back to your task.
Samson waits for a few moments, then he casually tells you that “Command is looking for you.”
Your eyes shoot to the ground, then the mop and then to him, and back down again. Your mind whirls, trying to think of a reason that they would be looking for you. You haven’t done something wrong, have you? Maybe the graffiti in the bathroom had been you, but you were the one that had to clean it anyway, so why would it matter?
Stammering, you ask, “Do you know why?”
Leaning on the wall, Samson gives a small shrug, “Beats me– all I know is that they told me to come and get you.”
Oh no. That couldn’t be good, could it?
“Well I’m done here if you want to go,” you respond, “Let me put this up.”
Your company waits for you to stick the mop back in storage, and then leads the way for you to go to Command Headquarters. Sweat is starting to stick to the back of your shirt as you enter into the dimly lit area of the main hallway. The command section of the base contains more points for security checks, but apparently there’s no need for that as your duo breezes right through it.
The bottom of your shirt is getting worn out from the way you’re wringing it with worry. Surely they can’t fire you, can they? The graffiti wasn’t even anything bad– it just said ‘I love you mom’ on it. Very innocent! You’d thought it was funny and then cleaned it up. Hardly anyone had seen it!
Spiraling is very busy work, so you don’t even notice that you’ve come directly to the Commander’s office doors until Samson knocks on it. The thing is made of thick wood, and the sound of his knuckles rapping against the surface has depth to it.
“Come in,” says a voice inside, and you’re led in.
Samson bows, hand on his chest, “As requested.”
You’re struck at the sight of Commander Davidson sitting before you. He’s older, with grey hair that’s cropped in a short military haircut. You’ve never actually seen him in person before, and you straighten a little as you remember you’re supposed to salute as well.
He doesn’t seem to care all that much, and waves your attempt away.
“At ease,” the Commander says. He leans forward on his desk, lacing his fingers together, “Do you know why you’re here?”
“Ah,” you look at Samson, who offers no assistance, “No, sir- Commander, sir.”
The man in question leans backwards in his chair, the leather creaking as he does so. His hand taps a file that’s open on his desk, and looking down confirms that it’s your file. Your own face smiles up at you from a photo that’s been paperclipped onto the paper. You shift in place nervously.
Commander Davidson speaks again, voice low, “What is said in this room stays here, do you understand?”
You nod, then give your verbal assent.
A second file is slid across the desk, and you tentatively move to go pick it up. It’s thick, with many addendums and post-its scattered through, sticking out from the neatly bound pages. You open it, and see a face that you haven’t glimpsed in a photograph in years– only on the sides of monuments and paintings that hadn’t been stripped from the city.
It’s the Emperor. Or- the former Emperor, you correct yourself mentally. There’s a massive wound in his side in the photo that makes your stomach churn, and you turn a page to try and see what happened, only to be struck by the amount of notes that have been taken.
The file makes you falter, why would they be showing you something this important and confidential - you were janitorial staff.
You stop reading and look up, “I don’t understand. What is this?”
The Commander responds evenly, “Those are photos of the now ex-Emperor when he was captured by our forces. He is being held on this base as we speak– he has been for a while.” He takes the folder from your hands, and gently closes it, “What we need is a cleaner, and you’re the best of the best in that regard.”
Insult to the rest of your abilities aside, it was true.
“What do you need a cleaner for?” you ask apprehensively.
“Due to the nature of his stay, the room is a little messy. You’ll be tasked with keeping it clean.” Commander Davidson chuckles, “He has been declawed, I assure you. There is no threat of danger.”
You really don’t feel like there’s much choice in the matter. And besides, what better way to serve your cause than to spit on the person that you’d spent years fighting?
Agreeing, you’re led out into the hallway again, and Samson takes you to what you think might have been a hospital bay at one point. You pause to go get what you assume will be the most useful of the cleaning supplies at your disposal, and he rattles a keychain to unlock the door. There’s multiple locks that line the metal door, and there’s loud thunks as each one is unlocked.
There’s a bit of fear that’s building up as you wait in anticipation. You’ve heard many rumors about the Emperor. That he’s a monster in disguise, that he’s a god. The massive displays that line the Imperium don’t help much in his favor for arguing that he isn’t at least one of those things. Before you joined the Order, you’d hoped to catch a glimpse of the man at least once. There’d been whispers in the hallways of your old planet about him– the kind that said he had a halo, and basked in a golden light.
All across Terra there were still statues of him, paintings, posters, everything - the Order had teams working to scrub the planet clean of his filth but for every image torn down it seemed like two more were found. Not to mention that there were more urgent matters to attend to following the ending of such a long galactic civil war.
So in some ways he still lorded over humanity— not for too much longer, you hoped.
It would take far more time to erase the suffering he’d caused on humanity. The blight of the Imperium would probably take centuries to scrub away at, but you would be part of history - the first generation of the free.
Would he still be proud? Proud of himself, of his work?
The idea makes your stomach churn as the final locks begin to click open.
The door swings open slowly, betraying its weight, and you see that he’s none of those things.
What you do see is a very tall man. There’s no light, no halo. His hair is unkempt and matted, and there’s a cut that runs down underneath his eye.
Oddly enough, the Emperor is much smaller than you’d imagined him to be. Gaunter, too.
‘Starved’ your brain supplies. Starved. Which, which is good, it is good because he is bad.
You had starved, your family had starved, your friends had starved, your people had starved - humanity had been starved and drained by the nobility sat in their palaces with dozens of dozens of starving serfs crawling on hand and knee to feed them. Not only was he one of them, but he enabled the rest.
It was his sons, his generals, which had caused such horrors, split the galaxy in two and humanity along with it - as if there was not already enough strife and suffering, they endeavoured to spill nothing but cruelty in their wake.
As you walk inside, his head lifts a little, which jostles the chains that are attached to his neck. Your eyes are drawn to them– there’s shackles on his wrists and ankles as well, heavy chains swirling to be attached to a device that juts out from the wall, inscribed with some sort of sigils. You think it’s all some kind of swivel mechanism that would allow him to move a bit. Not that it would help much, given his height.
You can’t help but stop and stare as you struggle to comprehend the man before you and the God you’d been expecting.
Samson pats your back, which jerks you out of your stupor.
“Well,” he says, “You need anything else?”
Your mouth opens and closes like a fish, then you stammer, “No? I don’t think so.”
He looks over you, taking in your reaction to the chained God and nods, “I’ll leave you to it. Sparkling clean, remember?”
And then he simply leaves, the door clattering behind you. All that’s left is you and your supplies, and the Emperor. Suddenly it strikes you that this may be an incredibly bad idea as you stare at the man on the wall. You’re pretty sure he can’t reach you, but you never turn your back as you start to clean the floors.
The floor which is utterly disgusting. You can’t even tell what colour it should be for all the dried and crusted brown, rife with chunks that you have to look away from before you can think too hard about it. Not to mention the pools of darker red, blood congealed but not yet dried.
Your brain starts to catch up with the task, still working overtime to comprehend the situation you’ve so suddenly been thrust into when the smell hits you.
Rancid.
Rotting.
No wonder they wanted it cleaned, only a few moments in and your eyes were watering from the sheer stench that had been produced.
It provokes you into actually moving, not just staring dumbfounded.
Quickly pulling a mask over your mouth, a few drops of scented oil in the cloth to try and mask the reek of decay, and you’re pulling out the harshest chemicals you have.
No dilution here, you’d be letting everything soak and sit for a minute then having to scrub like never before to shift the layers of build up.
There was no way anyone had touched this in months.
The walls need spraying too, where there had been splatter across them, but you daredn’t get too close to him.
You ignore the sick shade of red that comes up as you start to scrub. Foam builds as you do so. Periodically you glance at the giant figure in the corner, but he hasn’t moved. The Emperor does not look at you. You hasten your cleaning, pushing the water into the drain in the center of the room.
Why would there be a drain?
Pausing to think about the implications sends a shock of numbness through your system, so you choose to push it down, continuing with your task.
There’s only silence, and the sound of your squeegee on the floor. It’s surprisingly easy work, once the chemicals have soaked everything it seems to come right off. You’re done now, having barely broken a sweat.
The floor is a bleak greyish white now, though the grout is still a stained mess to say the least. That is aside from a semi circle around the man who you’ve refused to get within an arm’s reach of.
He might be a shell of a man, half limp against his restraints but just being in the room with the pinnacle of your torment has you feeling all sorts of disgusted and uneasy.
You’d done enough, certainly compared to what you’d worked into, and you couldn’t make your vaguely trembling body comply with doing any more today.
The edges of the room are swimming by the time you go for the door, having gathered everything up. Strong chemicals and stronger emotions making for a dangerous combination you have to escape from.
Pausing, you turn to look at the man strung up in the corner. A small part of you feels rude for having not said anything yet. And your mouth moves before your brain does.
“I’ll…see you tomorrow…?” you stammer out, and immediately feel blood rushing to your ears. Stupid stupid stupid. Why would you say that?
Before you can even try to hear a response, you sprint out the door, and breathe a sigh of relief as it closes behind you. Samson reappears to lock it up, and you leave, feeling completely rattled.
Samson claps your shoulder, grounding you for a moment and gives you a grim and understanding smile, “good work - hard work, but couldn’t imagine anyone doing a better job than you.”
You don’t feel like you’ve done a good job, you feel like vomiting, but you nod anyway. He looks like he understands and gently guides you towards the exit.
You feel disquieted until you reach the safety of your room, able to lock the door behind you. A blisteringly hot shower where every inch of skin is scrubbed raw later, and you curl up beneath your blankets, trying to bury the images that come to your mind unbidden.
Your nose is still ruined by the stench.
Luckily, you don’t dream of anything as mental exhaustion swallows you whole and darkness claims every corner of your mind.
They come and fetch you the next day, as you’d thought. Perhaps you’d been a little hopeful when you woke up that maybe you did a bad job, and you’d never have to go back there.
The stench of blood was never one that you could manage, which had led to you being assigned within the base instead of in a soldier role. You’d cried when they had tried to teach you to shoot someone. And being a medic was out of the picture when you threw up while trying to help with a surgery.
You’d never been good at following orders, anyway. So it had all worked out. The comfort of the base and the knowledge that you wouldn’t be doing the fighting. You could even pretend that there was nothing untoward going on. That everything was normal.
It was very hard to pretend that the world was normal when you step into that cell again, only to find that there’s a massive wound on the Emperor’s side. It’s a large, ugly thing– jagged and reaching from his hip bone to wrap around his back. Blood seeps from it, pooling on the floor in thick puddles. The clothes that he had on the day previously have been stripped, and he’s slumped in a sitting position with a cloth to cover his private area. Red has dripped onto the light colored cloth, and you avert your eyes back upwards.
You almost think he might be dead until you see the rise and fall of his chest.
Okay, cool. Not dead.
Your breath shudders.
But also… it’s going to be awfully hard to keep the floor clean if he’s going to be bleeding like that. You think about it for a moment, then tap your knuckles on the door.
Samson opens it a crack, and all you see is a glimpse of his beard and his eye peering inside.
“Yes?” he asks.
“Uh,” you say, “He’s bleeding…?”
Samson doesn’t appear to be very concerned about that as he curtly responds, raising an eyebrow as if this is expected, “Yes, he is.”
You blink for a second, and shift in place, nervousness filling your chest, “I don’t… won’t the floor just get dirty again if he keeps bleeding on it?”
The soldier snorts, then flippantly remarks, “If there’s blood over there it’s not an issue. Just make sure everything else is good to go.”
He stares at you for a moment, before you mumble “okay” and the door shuts again. It’s dimly lit inside, and the sudden lack of light from the hallway causes your eyes to struggle to adjust.
You stare at the door, listening to the sound of your breathing. Right. Yeah. Just… let him bleed. Cool. That’s fine.
The jitters have returned in full force from yesterday, but this time you turn your back on the Emperor. You feel a stab of guilt as you do so, but you can’t stare at his figure. His hair has fallen in front of his eyes, and there’s not even the jangle of chains to try and signal that he may be moving at all.
Squeezing your eyes tight for a moment, you clutch the mop and convince yourself he deserves this. He deserves whatever they’re doing after everything he’s put humanity through with his Imperium. You dredge up the memories of your friends that have died unnecessarily, the families torn apart by his reign.
You remember your planet.
The cloying smell of fresh blood is replaced by the choking scent of burning ash.
But the feeling remains, twisting your insides as you get back to work. You still don’t go close to the giant, instead making sure the floor is spotless around him. You flinch at the amount of dirt that’s lining the floor underneath him, your common sense telling you to make sure that all of the floor is clean, but you do not approach. Your mind is still warring with the idea of the Emperor being only a man.
His depictions contrast so heavily with the gaunt person you see before you that you just can’t do it. These are different people. The man who burned your home is not the broken one before you— he simply cannot be.
You pause again at the threshold, and then bid him goodbye. You exit quickly, leaving the room like he might chase after you. The Emperor doesn’t even flinch.
Day after day passes the same, each time he’s littered with fresh wounds, but it also seems like the old ones heal too quickly to be normal.
And each day is different too.
Huge bruises that splay across his whole torso and paint him in battered blues and purples one day, and what must have been thousands of thin slashing cuts the next.
Some days the new injuries look like nothing you recognise and your stomach churns as you can’t help but wonder what they did to inflict them.
There’s always some kind of harm on him, or something festering. You do your best to ignore it, but it’s eating at your conscience. Your mother always told you that you had too big of a heart– and it’s proving true once again.
It’s beginning to feel like they’re testing you, the way you’re paraded into that awful cell. It’s been two weeks, and you’ve been taken completely off the roster for normal cleaning tasks during your allotted time. The mopping goes smoothly now that you’re less concerned that he’s going to escape and the bulk of prior build up has been scraped away.
You wouldn’t say that you’re braver, but you turn your back to the Emperor. There’s been nothing but silence from him. It’s hard not to fill it, wanting to ease the oppressive air in the room, but you refrain from your usual habit of whistling while you work if only because you can’t do it while watched.
Today you decide to tackle the discoloured grout. Not because it matters, but because your brain won’t let you leave it alone, a job unfinished.
The solution is a bright blue, and tiny bubbles form where it meets the porous material, eating away at the top discoloured layer. You have to apply it on your hands and knees, shuffling as you pour it out into the gridded lines.
Still, it doesn’t take too long, and you sit back on your feet looking over the application for a moment. It would have to sit for at least half an hour to really work.
As you peer up it strikes you that you’ve grown far too comfortable working in his presence, but the prickling feeling of wrongness always rises whenever he comes back into the focus of your thoughts.
And now you are here, sat with nothing but time to kill while you wait. And nothing else in here but him.
You stare at the figure in the corner, quiet save for the humming of whatever the chains do to ward off his power. He doesn’t move. You glance at the door, and then at the Emperor.
Curiosity killed the cat, and it’s curiosity that finally wins out after so long, and so you approach carefully.
There’s grime all over his skin to accompany the main cuts and bruises, and you wince at seeing it closer. It’s almost a mimicry of the way the room was coated in filth, except no one has been assigned to scrub him down.
You’ve been giving him a wide berth, and even then you could make out the wounds. Up close it they’re a thousand times worse, puffy and raw, skin festering with the attempt of infection.
The one on his side from when you’d first entered catches your eye, and you spend a long moment staring at it.
Then you look up and make direct eye contact with the Emperor, whose eyes have moved underneath the curtain of dark greasy hair to look at you. You flinch, and stumble backwards, falling on your butt in the process.
It’s a scramble to get up, heartbeat racing in your ears, and his cracked lips curl upwards into what might have been a smile, if not for the teeth he’s missing. But he doesn’t move other than that, only watching.
You two breathe, and hold eye contact for just a moment too long. Then you break it and run, grout cleaning abandoned as you scoop up your supply bucket and flee.
The door slams with the force at which you open it, cleaning products clattering across the chamber floor where Samson is waiting to lock back up. He eyes you with concern for a moment, eyes quickly scanning for damage.
“You alright?” he asks as he steps around you and locks up, “You look extra spooked today.”
It's an understatement and you both know it.
He lets you recover a moment though, not rushing you as your breathing slowly becomes easier, and you inform him that the Emperor had looked at you.
“What if he’s trying to read my mind or something?” you whisper, horrified. “Is that something he can do? I think it is.”
Samson frowns as he pockets the keyring, before remarking, “He couldn’t be doing that. The chains block his power, remember?”
Right. Right. You nod, trying to relax.
But now there’s a festering problem in your mind. Before, when he was a motionless statue, it was easy to ignore that he was a real person, or something close to it. The Emperor had faded a bit in your mind as just a still figure in the background of your work. Now though– now you've seen real proof of life.
Breath in his lungs, awareness in his eyes as they bore into yours.
Judgement.
You bite your nails down to stubs as you head back to your bunk, still trembling. What were you going to do?
You do not sleep well. The Emperor’s eyes are burned into your eyelids. They weren’t golden eyes like all the paintings.
They do not hold untold and limitless power.
They’re brown, and they stare at you in your dreams, unblinking. You keep waking up in a cold sweat, breathing sharp pants.
Serayne, your bunkmate, grumbles at you to keep it down as you stagger out of bed to go splash cold water on your face. You stare in the mirror, and realize that the bags under your eyes have worsened. That’s just great, isn’t it? You can’t decide if your face or your morals are in worse shape, and you slump against the cabinet under the sink. Your mother would disapprove greatly, but then again she wouldn’t have agreed with anything you’ve done since the fall of your homeworld.
But your mother isn’t here, and you have to do something with your time, so you scrape yourself off the floor to get ready for your shift.
Tired feet dragging as you wander down to the dining hall and get your rations for the morning. The lady that works there slips you an extra biscuit as you go through, and you smile at her tiredly. She is kind and you like her.
It feels like the first day all over again as your chest thumps faster in building trepidation with every step closer to that forsaken room.
When you arrive, Samson is smiling grimly, looking you over with a sort of determination, like he’s checking you for something.
He gives your arm a squeeze as you enter, “I know it’s hard work being in there with him, I can tell it’s taken a toll - but he’s getting what he deserves, don’t worry.”
You try to let the words just wash over you and not absorb them but they reverberate in your head.
He’s getting what he deserves.
He’s getting what he deserves.
He’s getting what he deserves.
Don’t worry.
An extra bucket of water is put onto your cart today, and you almost wish you hadn't had breakfast today as you enter the dingy cell.
They’ve pulled off his fingernails and toenails, and left them scattered about. You’re frozen in place as Samson swings the door shut.
You stand there for what must be minutes, just staring before your body moves, feet shuffling over streaks of gore.
The Emperor is slumped against the wall again, and out of desperation to carry on in your work, you choose to focus on the familiar routine that you have– going from the other side of the room towards him, but keeping your semi circle.
You gingerly sweep up the nails and throw them into your trash can. Where they will go, you have no idea.
But you have to keep averting your eyes from the nail beds themselves. They’re red, spots of blood pooling in them. Some of it has crusted to the edges, turning a deep, dark shade of reddish-brown, and your stomach turns as you try not to throw up.
There’s the slight rattling of chains, and you freeze in place. Your eyes slowly track upwards to meet the pupils of the Emperor. He’s looking at you again, and your mouth hangs open as you try to summon something to say.
Fortunately, he breaks the silence, speaking in a raspy voice that might have been commanding if not for his raw and ragged vocal chords.
“Get on with your job.”
You blink, and stand there, dumbstruck. What?
His eyes narrow, “Surely they did not send someone so stupid to do this task.”
Arrogance.
A wrinkled lip sneering in cold command.
That breaks you out of whatever spell you were under, pity for the God fallen from grace, for the man who deserved to be broken fleeing you and you scoff, “I am not stupid.”
The Emperor looks unimpressed and unconvinced, but doesn’t say anything else. Now you’re annoyed, and your scrubbing becomes harsher.
How could you have felt bad for him? Your brain has taken the separation of the Emperor of the Imperium and the pitiful man you too far, and you needed to remind yourself of exactly who he was.
You scowl, and move away.
“I’m here to keep this room clean, that’s all! I don’t have to stand here and talk to you.”
He grins at you, flashing all his remaining teeth again. This time you notice that it’s his canines that have been pulled. There’s small nubs of white that poke out over the top of the gums.
“And I don’t have to listen,” he sniggers, which breaks off into a wheeze.
Beaten bloodied and yet still so proud as to goad you.
You puff up in indignation, anger flaring “And which one of us can leave this room?”
A beat of silence rings out as that seems to catch him, because he falls still again.
His eyes feel like they’re scanning your very soul as he sits there. You whirl towards your cart back around and drag it towards the door. Not bothering to say goodbye, you leave.
Wretched man.
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It hurts seeing him like this - the man, the man of many titles and names, beloved by all but beloved by none more than you.
Many wept and cursed at his predicament, many went to insane denial and bleeding cope, to see the Master of Mankind in such an unthinkable state. The Imperium was in fractures and here now, in this chair barely keeping him now alive was the clear representation, the figurehead, of that. But that was the grief of Humanity, to you he was so much more than that. Much more. He was much more than what the average folk saw. Much more.
It did not feel real, it still does not. Your mind can reel and absorb as much of the information as it can but it shatters to pieces once it comes into contact with the hardening walls of your heart.
For a small amount of time Malcador was there to support you, truly understand what you were going through, he after all knew Neoth on the same level as you did; he knew the man, not the idol. But it's not long after he is gone too.
You are alone, even if there is countless of guards and servants around you to serve, years upon years pass and the list of more and more people around you that could possibly understand grow less and less each passing day.
You were gifted a long inhuman life, blessed so that you may walk at your husband's side into the rest of eternity only to now be cursed by it. Now, for thousands of years you have to stare back at a motionless figure strapped down to a screaming dull chair. It's sick in a way, ten thousand years have you be the companion to a corpse, much longer than the 500 you spent with the actual man.
He's still in there, somewhere, you try and tell yourself, you don't get that much time alone with him as you would like to - always some sort of watchful eye prying about and studying your every interaction. But in the rare moments... you try and speak to him, try the best you can in your trembling cadence to speak to him as you once have millennia ago. It becomes to much. Over time you begin to loose the hope you had. He can't hear you. But that doesn't stop you from talking; sharing how your days have been, what's been on your mind, what's been troubling you, and on worse days... sometimes you just cry, stumbling on the ground before his feet, remembering what was once was.
Little are you aware of the stare that is locked onto you from the corner of his eye.
Ozymandias - Emperor of Mankind x Fem!Reader: Chapter Three
Cowritten with @absynthe-mind. PLEASE make sure to read all the TW/tags for this-- it's going to be diabolical.
This fic is cross-posted on AO3.
Chapter Masterpost
Chapter One
TW for this chapter: canon typical violence, graphical depictions of torture, mental anguish, imprisonment, labour camp, dead dove: do not eat
Chapter Three: the heart that fed
Your heartbeat roars in your ears, and it feels as though the organ may come up your throat along with the acrid taste of vomit. Muscles tremble as you move on, and your mind is struggling to keep up with your actions.
What had you done, what had you done, what had you done?!
Showing any form of mercy to him of all people was unfathomable– it was beyond treason! It was, it was-
Stop. Stop.
You couldn’t think about it anymore.
There’s the distinct feeling of your hands shaking, but as you look down they don’t feel like they’re attached to your arms. These hands weren’t yours– these were the hands that had ruined everything.
Serayne gets your meal ticket again as you curl onto the threadbare blanket on your bed. Your insides twist and turn, and you weep again, tears dripping down your face and splattering onto the pillow.
What a pathetic sight you made.
All you had truly done in the time since starting this wretched duty was cry and cry and cry. All you could feel was desolation and ever present rising bile in your throat that threatened to spill over more and more each passing day. All you could smell was the ash of your home and the sharp tang of blood tainted bleach.
Was this what you were destined for?
Had you done something to deserve such torment?
Perhaps you could beseech the Commander to use a different cleaner, or at least to rotate the shifts out. Plead that it was eating at your soul– that you couldn’t stand another moment with that haunting figure of a man. You would beg at the Commander’s feet if you had to. Surely he would understand– those eyes haunted you at night, and now there would be a new nightmarish vision to join them.
As you drift into fitful sleep, you resolve that no matter what you need to get further and further away from the whole situation.
Because if you don’t… it will ruin you.
“Well, I have to say I’m impressed– a job well done!” comes the greeting in the morning.
You’re gobsmacked.
Either you have the worst luck in the universe, or there is an entity with a cruel, cruel sense of irony. Stars above it might be both. Or perhaps you are fantastic at manifesting the worst of circumstances– because here, at the crack of dawn and start of the work day, is the Commander himself standing outside your door. An unusual escort to your least favourite task, and you can only wonder what fresh hell would grace the halls today.
There’s tiredness in your bones as you follow him. Never directly beside, always one step behind.
He looks you over approvingly, and there’s some idle chatter as the two of you walk. You try to stutter out something that sounds vaguely appropriate as an answer and wrap your head around the early morning ambush. The conversation takes a distinct shift in tone when you enter the prison complex section of the base, and Davidson seems to stand taller and straighter as you approach the room. His medals sparkle under the fluorescent lighting.
You jump as a hand lands on your shoulder, and he chuckles goodnaturedly.
“Listen, I wanted to speak with you personally today to tell you that you’ve done a good job,” he starts as he casually undoes the first few locks as though he were opening a shed instead of a cell. The Commander pauses to look back at you, “but I suspect you already guessed that.”
You nod in agreement– because you had, and swallow thickly as the anticipation kicks in to see what awaits on the other side.
The door swings open and as your eyes adjust to the darkness, you search for what’s changed on his figure, darting up and down the now horribly familiar form. What catches you off guard is that nothing looks worse than yesterday. If anything it looks better, especially now that his legs were a little cleaner.
His cuts seemed shallower, scabbing slightly and only oozing rather than freely weeping down his skin. Older scars look ever so slightly fainter, and though his face is once again obscured by his hair, you can tell there is an overall better pallor to him.
It makes you stop short, and the commander chuckles warmly, placing a hand on your shoulder while looking down at you– his gaze not transfixed by the captive laid bare like yours has been.
And then he remarks, “When we first trialled the idea of getting someone to clean in here, we weren’t sure what the results would be,” his hand moves off your shoulder and he turns away from you, letting your head follow his movement.
“But we like it - or, well, at least the senior officers can stand in here now without having to wipe down their boots afterwards - and hold their noses.” Davidson winks at you like this is some sort of inside joke, but all that you can do is glance between him and the prone figure that haunts your dreams.
Your body remains turned towards the Emperor as you look back to see what Davidson is doing, and you’re surprised to see him fiddling with a large new attachment to the wall behind you. It’s on the far side of the wall, but you hadn’t even seen it as you’d come in, far too concerned with changes to him rather than the room itself.
“And we like yesterday’s initiative, too.”
Your heart sinks to your stomach, and your breathing quickens as anxiety shoots to every inch of your skin.
This is it. You hadn’t even had a chance to talk with him about anything you had wanted too, so caught off guard in the early morning and the conversation was utterly dominated by him. And now they’d seen what you’d done.
Blood rushes to your head, the pounding of your pulse so loud in your ears you can barely make out his next words:
“I know it hasn’t been easy, and that this is a tough ask of you— which is why I took the liberty to have this installed just for you.”
You recognise the shape now that he stands back slightly and turns towards you both once more.
It’s a hose, with a short but thick pipe, topped with a twistable nozzle that the commander is still fiddling with as he steps forwards.
“What?” you finally question, voice tinged with confusion and concern for what they were going to ask of you. You couldn’t deny it would be handy, but you had your buckets and you could refill them with the hallway tap like normal. It was of no real inconvenience, and your brain has yet to make the leap he wanted you to.
Water gushes out, fast, hard and freezing cold.
The commander turns it slightly until the spray is a harsh jet, and you have to bite back the shriek of shock that jumps up as he turns it on the Emperor. It doesn’t quite blast his skin off– and for that you are grateful– but it acts much like a pressure washer as it works to detach the muck from his flesh.
You’d never felt so uncomfortable just watching something– gawking as the chained man folds in on himself as icy water savages his torso, the overspray dripping onto the tiles. Chunks of grime flake off under the pressure and slide towards the drain, revealing more and more olive toned skin underneath, along with even more hidden injuries and at least a dozen scars to match each fresh line that makes itself known.
However, almost as soon as it has started does the torrent come to a spurting stop. Your thoughts are interrupted as you’re spoken to again.
“Your new task is to make sure he is as clean as the room - or well, close enough.” Davidson’s words are accompanied by a proud smile of pearly white teeth as he pushes the hose into your empty hands. He commiserates, “I know you don’t want to get close, and I don’t blame you, but I trust you to get the job done. Keep up the good work!”
He leaves the room, door thudding heavily behind him, and the only thought you can form is that you don’t understand.
You don’t understand any of this, and trying to process it is making your head spin.
Worst of all, you didn’t understand why you?
The room tilts on its side as you stare at the hose in your hand.
The Emperor’s face rises for the first time since you’ve entered, and when you catch sight of his face there’s the clattering noise of the hose falling to the floor, rolling across the tiles in a semicircle as your loose fingers tremble. Your feet shuffle backwards in horror, and you barely catch yourself from tripping over the coiled rubber behind you on sheer instinct.
Brown, piercing, bloodshot eyes have moved to meet yours.
How they’re back you could never have guessed– you certainly know they’re not spending insanely costly healing resources on regenerating him, but they’re back. They’re back and they’re staring at you intently, as if memorising every inch of your face.
You hate it.
You hate him.
You hate everything about this situation and your gut twists as you war internally.
Another step and your back has hit the wall. It’s cool and solid against your shivering and sweating form. You can only imagine what he sees when he looks at you– a small rabbit in front of a starving lion.
“Go on then,” he hisses, venom seeping through every syllable. You flinch.
His whole form is tense, as if waiting for the next hit. Lean and ragged muscles are taught against every restraint as he braces against them, face defiantly bared towards you. His teeth have returned, and his lips have curled up in a snarl to show every single one.
But then the fight drains from him.
His words are not defeated– they still grind through gritted teeth– but they hold a resignation that his burning anger didn’t.
“...get it over with.”
The silence between you stretches on– neither moving, neither yielding. You have nothing to say in response because you don’t know where to begin.
But you do know what to do, because the job needs to be done and you know you cannot pick up that hose. It lies on the floor, pristine like an unexploded grenade. You already know your hands will refuse to hold it. The Commander cannot be refused though, so you leave into the side room and start filling up your cart. Fresh buckets of water, soaps, scrubber, sponge - you check each article twice just to buy yourself precious time before you have to go back in.
When you enter again, his head snaps up to look at you– face impassive and unreadable, but his body is more composed than when you’d left. Just as soon as you’ve registered his action, he lets it fall down again, hair closing in to shield his expression.
You approach tentatively, like you would have a rabid beast– with wide eyes, trembling limbs and the constant mental whisper asking you if you really want to do this.
If you turn around now and grab the hose, you won’t have to get any closer to him.
The whole trolley shakes as you fiddle with the scrubber, changing out the attachments and pouring some soap concentrate into the bucket until you’re satisfied with your weapons of war - a sponge on a stick and a jug of lukewarm soapy water.
Your brain wrestles with the fact that you’re going to have to get close to him. Far closer than you’ve ever been comfortable with. If you’d told your month younger self what you were about to be doing, you would have laughed until your face turned red– because the idea was preposterous. It bordered on insanity, and yet here you were, about to embark upon the task.
Why did the line you were willing to cross have to keep shifting?
You were closer now than you ever had been before– able to see the details of his skin that were bruised and filthy, and he looked exactly like he smelled. Decrepit.
A section of the grime was peeled off now, along with the small section you’d done yesterday, but everywhere else was still caked in gore. It was disgusting beyond measure. You had not a single clue how he could remain so composed while practically embalmed in his own blood and viscera.
You supposed that he would have to be, well, used to it by now.
Do not think too hard about it.
Turning off your train of thought as best as you can, you set your jaw in grim determination. The only way out of this room was through this task, and there was no easy way to complete it.
The water sloshes as you sink the sponge in with a vengeance, water and bubbles spilling over the sides in equal measure as you dunk it until it’s fully saturated.
There is no more delaying it.
Your teeth grind as you poke the stick towards him, excess water dripping down his legs as your contraption wobbles towards his shoulders. His frame is still somehow excessively broad and strong, even with his skin pulled tight over muscle that’s too lean - not a pinch of spare pulled across his bones. He just looks too big to be real. When the sponge connects with his skin you expect him to say something, do something or even just acknowledge you - but he doesn’t.
So you get on with it.
The sponge rubs back and forth, the stick providing a leverage that lets you put some force in without getting too close. You can’t imagine it's very soft or gentle but it’s far, far better than the practically skin flaying spray down. There’s a horrible joke somewhere to be made about nurses, sick patients and sponge baths, but you try to shake away the thoughts and treat it like you’re washing down a dirty statue, given he might as well act like one most of the time.
Slowly, more and more of a greyish olive tone is revealed, thin veins trailing but standing out starkly from his skin. Sections are lightened and raised where scars upon scars upon scars have been layered and layered and layered. Every pass reveals more and more collected cruelty.
It was far easier to ignore the injuries and implications from afar, when you had the luxury of staying away and ignoring him in the dim lighting. Disregarding the way his flesh always held some kind of fresh bruising. You supposed that you could ignore him again – this was a self imposed torture, after all.
All you had to do was step back and pick up the hose.
But you don’t– you keep scrubbing, occasionally splashing over fresh water to clear your canvas, working at him much like you would the floor. Tiles first, the larger expanses of anatomy mostly cleared, then the grout, finer creases and folds of the skin worked into and focussed on.
And just like the room, he is eventually clean too, or well, everything except his head.
Then you have to ask yourself - are they expecting you to do his face when washing him down?
…
The answer is of course they are.
You can imagine it easily, water pounding against his face. Delicate skin, tender and recovering eyes, mouth, nose - all victim to the same treatment. The way he’d splutter and cough involuntarily as it forced its way into his lungs.
Maybe it would have been best to use the hose after all, it would have been over quickly rather than subjecting yourself to even more mental torture and gymnastics to justify your action to yourself.
For a flash of a moment something else plays in your mind, where you’re kneeling next to him, softly wiping down his face with a gentle touch and cloth. The thought bites at you, making your stomach churn and hands tremble.
No.
This was far enough. You had gone far enough now.
Instead you dunk the sponge back into the bucket, swilling it a few times and pressing it into the sides to try and clear it from most of the muck. The water had long since turned into a discoloured mess, but it was clean enough in comparison to him at least. It would just about get the job done - not unlike yourself really.
He twitches when it pushes against his cheek, but he doesn’t flinch back from you, his head still bowed. You push it back slightly and his hair parts as you try and make a start and get it over with.
Which is a mistake.
Because he is watching you, and now you can see his eyes.
They’re not piercing you, no, that would be far too kind. They’re questioning, and cynical.
Brown, but in the way amber is when it’s hit by the midday sun, like honey on rye except there’s a light to them. You wouldn’t have described them as the glowing golden judgement that the galaxy depicted, but as warm earth backlit by something untold - like he knows something you don’t.
For all they hold something of the beyond, they’re human.
They’re human and they hold his pain.
You can ignore it from afar, you can build up walls and defend yourself from the way his muscles shake and form trembles and body bleeds but you cannot look a man in the eyes and ignore his agony as it seeps into you. He is not a chained God, he is sickeningly human.
The cold of the tiles doesn’t register against you as you sink into them.
He is silent as he regards you. There are no snippy remarks or quips or witty cutting words that remind you why he is here, why it is he deserves this fate. You have to wonder just how well the power limitations work on him when he might as well be stripping your soul bare.
Except he isn’t, he can’t be, because he doesn’t understand… though then again, neither do you.
“Why?”
The sun beats down on you, scorching your skin as you work the saw– sweat dripping down your back and soaking the thin shirt you wear as you heave the massive instrument with your fellow worker. You’re beginning to get concerned for him, watching his breathing get more and more ragged as the two of you continue. His eyes aren’t…quite all there anymore as he throws himself against the motion of the work.
Back and forth, back and forth.
It’s hard labor, using the massive handsaws to cut the trees– which is why you and your fellow rebel captives had been assigned to do it by the Imperial soldiers. When you’d come to consciousness in that camp, they’d stripped you of everything except your clothes and set you to work cutting down the trees that had once protected you.
Back and forth, back and forth.
You’d cried your first few shifts as you’d made wounds in those giants, practically feeling the anguish that you inflicted upon them. But eventually the tears had dried, and you were resolute in your job. You still mourn the towering woods, but you would rather see it fall by your hand than the cruel fist of the Imperium. At least they would go down with dignity– with decency.
Back and forth, back and forth.
If only your family had been granted such a respite.
Back and forth, back and-
Your companion seizes, then falls to the ground, not moving, and you freeze– hands still curled around the slickening handle. Glancing around, you mentally weigh the options.
Were you meant to help? The guards weren’t looking at your team directly, which meant that no one had noticed the prone figure. But your fingers refuse to move as your mind turns over the idea that you could get punished for not continuing in your job, even if you were showing simple concern.
Words stick in your throat as you stare at the man on the roots. He’s gaunt from starvation and twisted from his fall.
Then the guards finally notice, and one of them shouts out, “We got another one down!”
Grumbling breaks out from the group, and two of them peel away to come drag your partner away. They’re about your age, and you shrink backwards as they approach– cowing your head and staring at them through the hair that’s fallen into your eyes.
Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.
One of them looks up suddenly from where they’re inspecting the body, and scoffs upon seeing you.
“Well, well– look at this one taking a break. Get back to work!” he snarls, and your body jerks back into action.
The saw doesn’t move nearly as fast when it’s just you, but you heave your entire body weight into it. Your own breath gets a little ragged as your muscles exert themselves beyond what they’re capable of. Your former companion has been dragged away, and your mind wanders to the Rites that should be performed for him. Maybe you could… try… later. You didn’t know his name, but he’d been a sturdy fellow until the bitter end.
You wonder if you’ll be joining him shortly as your vision swims. But you keep on going.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Another man joins you not too long afterwards– a middle aged man with a half-shorn beard. He looks world weary as he takes up the other end of your tool. The two of you spend the entire afternoon and evening working that damn saw. Neither of you say anything. There wasn’t a need to– it was already stamped on the lifeless things that lie behind you. People and trees, cut down before their prime.
It isn’t until the next day that all of you are roused– the bunkhouse you’re assigned to is hastily constructed. There are other teams assigned to building railway systems and command posts and more bunkhouses because the Imperium will not rest until everyone on your planet has a place within it. The snake has opened its mouth wide to swallow your people whole, and it will succeed.
They always will.
Your bunk bed is shared with several other people– but your group has the fortunate luck to only have two people to a bed. It totals out to six people in each column, the bunks going three beds high. All of you are expected outside for roll call, and you stumble onto the ground from your vantage point.
You always got stuck with the highest bunk.
By the time your feet have hit the ground, feeling the splintering wood underneath them, your bed mate has not moved an inch. You share a look with the leader of your little squad, who goes to poke her.
There’s no movement, even on being shaken.
The floor swims in your vision as you think about how last night you’d been glad when she’d stopped squirming so much. It had been interrupting your sleep, making it even harder to do already difficult labor.
And she was dead. Fuck.
Fuck. When did you become so cruel?
You should’ve helped her. Should’ve done… something.
It then occurs to you that you never did the Rites for your former sawing companion either.
But your eyes can’t summon any tears, and you think that maybe you’ve dried out every portion of water within your veins. Maybe there was never any to begin with– only salt crystals like those in the dried riverbeds of your home.
All of you sans one march out into the main quad area. The chances of someone escaping are low, and the command likes to keep it that way. So when they come to a halt in front of your squad, you begin to nervously pick at your thumbnail cuticle. It’s already torn to hell and back, but it’s an anxious motion.
“Shouldn’t you lot have twelve, not eleven?” purrs the officer, leaning down to talk to your leader.
She clears her throat, for all the good it does her with how parched everyone is, and says, “One of ours died last night.”
That changes his mood immediately, and he sighs, “All of you need a stronger constitution. We can’t have everyone dropping like flies all the time.”
He moves on, but there’s a sense of tension still amongst your group. What was going to happen now? You can’t turn your head, but your eyes follow as far as they can. The other groups are eventually dismissed, but yours is made to stand there.
The commanding officers finally drift over, with the one from inspection speaking to them.
“They’re filthy,” he gripes, “I don’t know how you expect me to make the quota when all that happens is they get sick.”
“Let them bathe, then,” one of the commanders says, waving a hand idly, “Surely there’s some water somewhere for them to use?”
You perk up a little at the idea of a bath. Oh, it had been so long! Even before you’d been captured, you’d had a layer of dirt and grime on your skin. You’re almost certain that it had become congealed onto you, thick and sludgey. The dust from the trees created an even worse experience, sticking to your sweaty exposed skin and hardly coming off even when you swatted at it during the night.
All eleven of you are paraded over to a small, grassy area. The guards depart, but all of your group stand still, not moving a muscle.
Finally, someone– a younger girl, barely seventeen, whispers, “Ka’tahlia, are they really going to let us take a bath?”
Ka’tahlia, ever the leader, shushes her, “I don’t know. Now stop talking.”
Her tone is harsh, but there’s worry laced into it. Not once has your lot been given a good advantage, and you have to agree with her sentiment of concern.
They’ve left all of you to the point that even you’re shifting in place, weight moving from foot to foot. Then there’s the sound of footsteps coming around the corner, and your heartbeat skips, before you feel it plummet into your stomach.
There’s a hose being carried, and all of a sudden any hope of a proper bath is vanquished. They don’t even have any soap.
You’re all forced to stand farther apart. The other girls flinch as the water hits them, and no amount of bracing yourself can equate to the feeling of being hit by the torrent. Any warmth from the water is gone, and instead you’re sprayed with cold, salty river water. You can’t help the shriek that claws its way from your throat, but all that gets is a laugh and a second jet on your other side as they attempt to detach the dirt.
Once the lot of you are thoroughly soaked to the skin, the commanding officer nods in approval.
“That should do it.”
You’re all dismissed to your jobs, shaking and dripping water as you walk. The salt from it dries sticky on your skin, and you almost miss your grime layer as your sweat battles to cool down your body.
The new guy you’re stuck with sees you approach looking like a drowned rodent, but says nothing. There’s nothing to say– he knows what’s happened. It’s as much as obvious, and beyond that there’s still sawing to do. You take your place again, and begin putting as much of your strength into it as possible while your muscles scream in agony.
Back and forth, back and forth.
Endure, endure, endure.
You stare at him for a long, long time– to the point where he even begins to look uncomfortable. The rustling of his chains break the spell, and you curl your lips in a snarl, similar to the way he had earlier.
Spit lands at his feet as you hiss like a wounded animal– “Fuck you.”
The cart rattles as you leave hurriedly.
You hope it hurts tonight.
A/N: sorry it took so long, our jobs are beating us up.
:(
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