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Unintended

Summary:

They say, it is fate. They say, it is in the genes. They say, it is a curse. They say, it is a gift.

Constance Dorn had a bright future ahead of her and a loving family to share it with in this golden age of Mankind, for the years of the Great Crusade were years of celebration, of exploration, of promise, and legends were forged along its glorious path. Until her own legend started and turned out to be a nightmare, tearing everything she knew apart.

Notes:

These loosely associated chapters are follow-ups to the original chapter about Dorn's daughter Constance in 'Children of Gods, Children of Men' by Vividwings:

http://archiveofourown.org/works/709836/chapters/1378320

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Chapter 1: Ars Silentia (by SisterOfSilence)

Chapter Text

And lo, she spoke: “Behold the handmaiden of the Lord;
be it unto me according to thy word”

1:38 Scriptures of Iterator Luke, M1; re-iterated ca. M32

 

 

His mind wandered, his thoughts flitting across reality as he observed the very fabric of the omniverse. Colours, patterns, possibilities; their meaning was difficult to discern even with his keen intellect. There was a sudden flash, a sensation of light and power and intent rippling through the ever-changing layers of the universe as if it were a stone that had been dropped into their always stirring waters. It had come from near one of his sons; from near one of whom he would have never expected such a manifestation. His mind drew itself back to his physical body, which had already begun to frown despite his absence.

It was quiet all around him, safe for the whistle of the wind and the rustle of the last autumn leaves. The air was cool, but then the air was always cool here. When he opened his eyes the world around him was as he had expected it to be. The sun hung low and would soon disappear behind the snowy mountain peaks skirting the ancient plateau on which the sprawling palace had been built. Already it’s slow descend had dipped most of the monumental building in shadows, the falling twilight creeping across the marble and gold. Soon, it would reach even here.

He rose. The muscles in his legs flexed stiffly and his joints ached briefly. He had lost his grip on time. He had sat for too long. The frown upon his regal brow creased deeper, throwing shadows of its own across his statuesque features as his thoughts lingered on the disturbance he had perceived. How had this been possible? No matter. There were roads to take, choices to make, and rather sooner than later. A catastrophe could be averted yet. He must act swiftly. He’d send her, and they would see.


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It was not a summons, not exactly - not in any literal sense. And yet she had long since learned that was exactly what the suddenly pressing sensation was.

She was a blank, a psychic null: ethereal phenomena ceased to exist around her. Although this was not to say that she could not perceive them, or feel them. She was not happily oblivious to the psychic layers around reality - quite the opposite. Regardless, the unique abilities of most psychic beings were snuffed out in her presence like candles in the wind. Most psychic beings, not all. She had been studying a scripture when it happened. It was as if remembering an important, pressing matter accidentally forgotten; a sudden clarity of purpose born of the certainty a task must immediately be done. She rose promptly and followed the call, her studies quite forgotten. Up many a stairway she hurried, until at long last she reached the sprawling garden glades at the very top of the palace.

He was here. She knew it with the confidence of someone that spent her life tracking down psychic beings, and with the certainty of someone well versed in the habits of another. He came here often, to do what it was he did. To think, she supposed. It mattered not: his business was his own and neither to know it nor understand it was her purpose. She scanned the plazas with the practised gaze of a veteran scout, searching as she trotted into them, the urgency of responding to his summons pressing against her mind to make haste. And yet his presence was so expansive; it was difficult to pinpoint his physical location.

She found him at the far, western edge. He stood among the marble statues that bore the likenesses of his sons, seemingly gazing out at the mountain peaks and the setting sun. Despite the late hour the ground around him was bathed in light, as if even the sun dared not cast its shadows over him. Tall and silent he stood, robed in pristine white and deep crimson, rivalling the celestial body in splendour. As she approached she could feel the palpable force he exuded press back against the meat of her placating mind. It was nothing physical, nothing so unsubtle. It was purely the sensation of a psychic strength too encompassing even for her to nullify it completely. It was uncomfortable, and yet soothingly familiar. It was the one mind that did not become a spot of blandness against the miasma of reality when she came near it.

When he turned to her, the sensation became stifling. She weathered it, the way she had been trained to weather such things, and she loved it, the way she loved nothing else. Never elsewhere had she felt such a presence, and she hoped she never would for such a thing would not be stopped by her, or her Sisters. Only he would be able to stop it. Fortunately, he would always be here to do so. She dropped into a silent obeisance, a knee to the marble and a hand to her knee. She said nothing for her vow of silence forbade her to. He took no umbrage at her lack of decorum, for it was an oath she had sworn to him.

He approached her as silently as she had him, the last rays of sunlight seemingly following in his wake. He knelt as quietly as she had and reached for her chin, lightly tilting her visage up to his. He caught her gaze – hers was one of the few whose mind would not be unmade by his own. Her blankness shielded her. She looked up at him, his proximity all but suffocating to her antipodal mind. His appearance shifted and flickered before her eyes: the regal visage of a warrior-king; the rigid gaze of an iron tyrant; the gentle sternness of a strict father; a man, old and tired, so very tired.

In spite of her nullness, she felt the visions he shared as if they were her own. They comprised thoughts and memories, impressions and conjecture, shattered and scrambled like broken glass, tumbling one after the other in a sequence that made no sense. She could not grasp - could never understand – their full meaning for the complexity of his mind was leagues beyond her own. But she had learned, long ago, to glean information from these fragmented pieces: A thought of imminent danger, a memory of yellow power armour, an impression of a girl crying and a notion of a future failing. All this she learned in the instant her gaze was briefly lost in his.

+Find her+