Endurance, Third Archive Room.
Now.
.
The already sparsely populated Third Archive Room had even fewer people today. Servitors draped in plain gray-green robes moved quietly between the shelves, placing books, taking them out, copying them down. The soft rustle of quills brushing across paper drifted through the room.
The Third Archive Room did not entirely maintain Endurance's usual austere style. Though gray and green were the dominant colors here, a few simple, almost crude lamps protruded from the walls, providing the archive's only source of light.
It was so dim that every table in the Third Archive Room had been fitted with an additional slender little desk lamp. If readers needed one, they would sit down and switch on the small lamp.
A vast, intricate, almost extravagantly detailed mural flickered in and out of view under the dim light. The artists had poured their hearts into depicting the Emperor's noble splendor, and idealism—idealized and rendered symbolic—was displayed within the mural.
It was a mural portraying the Emperor's first encounter with Mortarion.
Ominous gray-green mist seeped in from every edge of the scene, only to be futilely and weakly driven back by the golden lines surrounding the Emperor's figure.
The Emperor in the painting wore none of his golden armor, only the plainest white robe, fastened with vivid green leaves. Sacred and noble.
The Emperor lowered his eyes, filled with pity, compassion, and joy.
He held his dying son in his arms. Mortarion's entire body was dark and rotting, his tattered gray robes like dry bones.
This was a dying reaper. Anyone who saw him would feel unease and terror rise from the depths of their heart.
But the Emperor in the painting did not. He held Mortarion and saved his lost son.
Praise the Emperor.
Hmm. Mortarion definitely would