3
" Give me a sign, God-Emperor. I do not even ask for the faith of saints. Give me the faith of the lowliest serf.
No answer came. No strength returned. The meaninglessness of the galaxy became more and more manifest, a monstrous truth of crystalline clarity.
When he was not kneeling in his cell, he was in the librarium. Midships, on the same level as the chapel, much smaller but still a great, high space, lined with shelves instead of glassaic, the librarium tortured him with the promise of wisdom, and the possibility of meaning. If only he could find the right book, the right argument, the revelatory turn of phrase that would restore to him what he had lost.
If only. "
― David Annandale , Sacred Hate (Warhammer 40,000)
12
" Down their lengths, the prisoners struggle in bonds they do not truly perceive. Fate shackles them. By power of eight and will of four, they are caught in the design. It pulls them towards me. I take up the web. I gather it in. The prey rushes forwards, blind in the arrogance of false hope. They are three, coming to be ground and torn by jaws of eight and edict of four. They believe in the illusion of choice, in the ragged dream of their struggle. The disciple of reason, the holder of secrets, and the winged nobility, they are infused with fire. It will burn them. I will burn them. They are no more than ash. But by knives of eight, for the glory of four, of the three there is the one whose pyre must be the galaxy. I pull the web, and shape his fate. The riven must stand before the undivided. He will embrace the majesty of ruin. "
― David Annandale , Ruinstorm (The Horus Heresy #46)
