The Knights Revenant - A development through melodrama.

[Sir Perfluous]

It's been a while since I wrote the IA for my DIY chapter, the pseudo-Arthurian Blood Angels successors the Knights Revenant, which you can read here if you feel like it, need some help as to what the hell I am going to be talking about in a bit and/or are particularly susceptible to shameless plugs. I've been musing on them quite a bit since then, and suddenly realised that there would be no better way to develop them, their character and story then by writing about them. It's been rather a fun exercise - by writing I have been forced to consider their names, rituals and beliefs in a way that I didn't when I just wrote about them in an Index Astartes article. I thought I would share some of these short stories because I'm rather proud of them. I've never written anything like this before, and though they may not be great prose, I'm happy with how they are turning out.

 

The stories aren't going to focus on any particular characters throughout a series, rather, they'll show various characters and aspects of the Chapter's beliefs from different points in their history. This is here for my benefit as much as anyone else; this way, if I don't get them done, people will be able to call me out on it!

 

Without further ado, I present Part One of my chapter exploration, in which a young man prepares for initiation into the Knights through a night of contemplation and meditation. Prepare for melodrama and unnecessary adjectives ahead.

 

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REVERIE

“I shall not strive for personal glory. I shall not falter in the face of my duty. I shall not dishonour the memory of angels. I will armour myself with faith and arm myself with honour. I will act as the sword of His judgement and the hand of His grace. I shall not draw my blade in anger or in fear, though the night be at its darkest. This I swear, with angels as my witness, until Death claims my vow.”

 

The faded plaster walls of the chapel dulled the whisper, echoing back a quiet, unintelligible susurration. Scattered around the floor, candles flickered and twirled, the long night’s melted wax running down the sides, filling the room with dancing shadows which leaped and spun in an elaborate dance with the soft orange glow of the candlelight. By that light, a kneeling figure could be seen, clothed in a long, snow white robe, held around the centre by a length of rope, which pooled in pale folds on the cold stone floor. The figure’s eyes were cast downwards and closed, fixed sightlessly on hands which were clasped before him in prayer.

 

“I shall not strive for personal glory. I shall not falter in the face of my duty. I shall not dishonour the memory of angels. I will armour myself with faith and arm myself with honour. I will act as the sword of His judgement and the hand of His grace. I shall not draw my blade in anger or in fear, though the night be at its darkest. This I swear, with angels as my witness, until Death claims my vow.”

 

Before the figure was a wooden altar draped in white cloth, upon which two silver candlesticks and a small silver bowl stood shimmering in the candlelight. Within the bowl a dark liquid lay, blackened by the shadow of the bowl’s rim. Elsewhere, darkness and flame continued their dance, though they had nothing else to illuminate. No other furniture stood in the chapel save for the altar and the kneeling whisperer.

 

The whispering continued, unabated, throughout the night, each repetition beginning as soon as the last had ended until they all ran together, the walls whispering their echoed reply in a thousand rustling voices.

 

“I shall not strive for personal glory. I shall not falter in the face of my duty. I shall not dishonour the memory of angels. I will armour myself with faith and arm myself with honour. I will act as the sword of His judgement and the hand of His grace. I shall not draw my blade in anger or in fear, though the night be at its darkest. This I swear, with angels as my witness, until Death claims my vow.”

 

I shall not strive for personal glory. I shall not falter in the face of my duty. I shall not –“

 

The candles flickered suddenly as light came flooding into the small room through a doorway in the wall behind the whisperer. Silhouetted in the doorframe stood a tall, black-clad man in a robe similar to that of the kneeling figure though he had a hood covering much of his face.

 

“Arvael? It is time”.

 

The kneeling man opened his eyes, wincing slightly as they adjusted to the light. Slowly, as though awakening from a deep sleep, he got to his feet, stretching out the aches of the night’s reverie, his long robe rippling and flowing like poured milk as it gathered around his feet. He walked over to the altar and gazed into the silver bowl for a few moments. Raising an arm before him, he dipped one extended finger into the liquid within it, which now glowed a deep red in the light from the open door. Raising the finger to his face, he touched his forehead and lips, leaving a crimson stain as he muttered a few final lines, his voice weak from the night’s vows.

 

“Oh Angel, whom the darkness could not kill, look over me in darkness”.

 

He hesitated for only a moment, then turned to the man in the door and bowed his head, prompting the other to do the same, and walked on, passing through the doorway and into a narrow hall illuminated by torches burning in brackets on the walls. Onwards, up a spiral stairway he walked, through darkened hallways and cold chambers, his bare feet slapping on the cold stone of the floor, his robe dragging through the dust. Eventually he arrived before a great set of stone doors, beautifully carved and painted, and inlaid with a veneer of gold leaf and precious gems, depicting a great winged angel in battle with hordes of scattered, broken daemons, which writhed and twisted around the doorframe, fleeing the Angel’s light.

 

Arvael stood before the doors in silence, his head bowed. The moment was upon him. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to look up again into the face of Lord Aesor Kay, Master of Squires, in his black robes and hood. The Knight gave him a reassuring smile as the great doors slowly swung open.

 

Arvael walked on in, Lord Kay beside him, into a magnificent chamber with the proportions of a cathedral, hundreds of yards long, held up by great marble pillars carved with a host of angels. Arvael knew them all by name, their faces as familiar to him as his own. Rhaevyr, He Who Brought Fire; Naethwyr, the Gentle Hand; Tanwyn, the White Hearth – each of the thousand saints of the Knight Brotherhood looked down on his as he made his way onwards. The roof was painted with frescoes depicting winged heroes, from which golden chandeliers descended, illuminating the hall with a brilliant white flame. The walls were also of marble, with great stained glass windows set into them. They showed the Angel – those closest to the door as a young man, then taller and stronger as they progressed until they culminated in the great statue that dominated the end of the hall – the Angel, carved from a single, gargantuan, pure-white rock, wings outstretched, spear pointing towards the heavens. Behind him, the stained glass blazed with the first light of the morning, shards of light pouring through like golden fire so that the entire hall seemed to be ablaze. Before the statue were great marble steps, leading to a stone basin, filled with a crimson liquid that glowed like a ruby in firelight. Arvael stopped at the base of the steps, looking up as he did so to see the stern yet ethereally beautiful faces of the Red Council, the gathering of Lord Knights, looking down on him from stone balconies either side of the white statue. They had stood up as he entered, and now loomed over him, the light shining off their golden armour and their white robes and tabards.

 

Arvael looked behind him, thankful to see the comparatively rugged and beaten, yet far more friendly features of Lord Kay, who gestured for him to proceed.

 

As Arvael placed his foot upon the first step, he heard the ethereal voices of the Silent Choir break out in song around him – the mysterious, ghostly, hooded guardians of this sacred place, who were never heard to speak but sang with such heavenly beauty as the gods of old could not have conceived. Looking up, he saw them in the eaves of the Cathedral, their faces lost in the depths of their bone-white cowls as their music beckoned him onwards. Slowly, with purpose, he made his way up the steps, his robe flowing over the steps in his wake as, step after step, he made his way onwards, until, at last, he stood beneath the wings of the Angel. He looked up at the granite faces of the Council above him, then before him, at the Font of Blood, the most sacred relic of the Knights. It was a stone basin, several yards in length and width, filled with the sacred blood that gave it its name. Its surface was completely still, untouched by wind or ripples but it shone with a deep, deep red that seemed to almost suck in the light around it and use it to illuminate itself from within. Arvael noticed though, as he stood before it, that a great crack ran along its length, though it had been repaired since, marring the simple beauty of the artefact. He wondered who would have dared to defile such a sacred relic.

 

Beside the Font stood the imposing figure of the presiding chaplain, in similar robes to Lord Kay but festooned with skull and blood iconography, amulets and medallions. In his hand, he held a straight, unadorned knife of such vicious sharpness that when it moved it seemed that the air it left in its wake was thinned. Looking behind, Arvael saw that Lord Kay had stepped to the side, though he gave him a nod of encouragement. Arvael took a deep breath. He had prepared for this all his life. He was ready. He had to be.

 

Moments passed, then, suddenly, in a voice like the cracking of rock, cutting through the music of the Choir, the chaplain intoned;

 

“Do you swear to uphold the principles of the Knight Brotherhood and the angels who came before?

 

“I do” Arvael replied hesitantly, in a voice that suddenly felt rather quiet and feeble.

 

“Do you swear to be a ward against evil, and a light in dark places?”

 

“I do”.

 

“Do you swear to keep to our codes, to face the dark with honour as your sword and to never fall to cruelty or cowardice, no matter how dark the night becomes?”

 

“I do”. Arvael couldn’t take his eyes off the knife in the chaplain’s hand. Its edge gleamed. For a moment he felt himself wavering – but no. There could be no going back now.

 

“And do you swear all of this with the hosts of angels as your witnesses?”

 

“I do”

 

“Then take your place within the font, wash away your old life and arise in the due course of time a sworn brother of the Knights Revenant.”

 

And then the Council on their balcony joined with the chaplain, in grim voices that felt odd juxtaposed against the beauty of their features;

 

“For we are all of one body, and that body is that of the Angel, for we have all shared of His blood. In the name of Him on Earth and of his many hosts”.

 

Arvael inched tentatively forward and placed a foot within the Font; the blood accepted it with barely a ripple. Slowly, he placed the second foot within it then began to walk forwards. His pure white robe became speckled with tiny red gems of crimson fluid, the lower half trailing behind him on the surface, splayed like the feathers of a white peacock. He waded inwards until the blood was up to his chest, then stood with his arms outstretched and his head down. Around him, he could see the faces of other Knights, staring up at him from within the blood with sightless eyes. Heroes of the Brotherhood, fallen in battle and afforded the honour of rebirth. He supposed he should feel honoured, but he couldn’t. He felt overpoweringly alone - a mortal amongst gods, a lamb amongst the lions. He felt very far from home. He glanced upwards at the Council – they were all regarding him coldly, more like statues than were the angels who looked down on him from the ceiling. He heard the gentle lapping of the blood behind him as the chaplain waded in behind him, felt the ripples against his back, and then all was still.

 

Arvael took a deep breath, his heart pounding. He looked back up at the council and repeated the words, the words that had kept him company in his contemplation throughout the long night.

 

“I shall not strive for personal glory. I shall not falter in the face of my duty. I shall not dishonour the memory of angels. I will armour myself with faith and arm myself with honour. I will act as the sword of His judgement and the hand of His grace. I shall not draw my blade in anger or in fear, though the night be at its darkest. This I swear, with angels as my witness, until Death claims my vow.”

 

And then he felt the hand of the chaplain grab his head roughly and wrench it backwards, so that he was gazing up at the ceiling. His mouth clenched and his eyes screwed shut in anticipation. The singing of the Choir reached a crescendo, a hundred voices raised to a great roar. He felt the cool blade on his neck, and then a tugging and a wetness on his front. He tried to breathe through his clenched teeth but found that he couldn’t, and began to panic, his heart raging as though trying to struggle for life.

 

But then a feeling of peace overcame him. He felt the hand of the chaplain release him but he didn’t feel as though he was falling, but flying, rising up to the face of the Angel, past the council and ascending to the heavens. He looked upon the Angel’s face one last time, and felt as though it looked back, encircling him in His wings and bearing him away from harm.

 

And then the red waters of the Font took him and he knew no more.