A Flower

Perhaps the voices were right, the florist thought idly.  She hadn’t listened to them initially, of course, just as any devout citizen of the Imperium would.  She had railed against them and hated them, and they had left for a time… but then, they had returned, asking questions, and she didn’t know the answers.  Then, last night, one had asked a question she had actually wanted to answer.
“what is…the most…beautiful flower…of all…”
She hadn’t answered.  In fact, she couldn’t.  She didn’t really know. The customer before her thanked her for the lovely bouquet the florist had assembled, reaching out to hand over his money.  His hand faltered when he saw the marks the florist had on her arms, but he took the flowers anyway, forcing his smile back on his face.  The florist followed him to the door, locking it behind him.  The day was over, anyway… and she had flowers to tend.
She puttered about the store, watering and pruning as needed, as the question floated through her mind.  She trimmed errant, wilting petals from the older flowers, smiling maternally as the younger ones flourished.  Finally, the question resolved itself in her mind.  She wouldn’t find the most beautiful flower here… she would make it herself.

She switched the lights off in her shop, making her way by memory to the small rooms in the back where she lived.  She carefully navigated around the piles of boxes and detritus cluttering up her hallway, for which she hadn’t found room after clearing out the garage to make it into her new workshop.
The lights kicked on in the reconditioned garage, casting a mournful pall over the art on the walls.  The florist glanced over her past work and sighed.  She wouldn’t find the best flower here, either…she would have to start from scratch.
She sat down in the chair before the drawing board, scrabbling for a fresh paper from the stacks in the bins under the table.  It looked like she had spilled some paint on them, blast it…she might have to find new ones.
Oh well, that was tomorrow’s problem.  She found a clean paper and set it down, visualizing her art before committing it to paper.  Task in hand, she lifted her tools and set to work.
Hours passed.  The clock on the wall ticked away the time, as she worked on, completely oblivious to its passage.  Finally, as her labors ended, she sat back, drained by her efforts, regarding the artwork on the table before her.  Here it was.  Here…was the perfect flower.  She dried her hands on the rag and lifted the paper, glad she had chosen such hefty stock.  Paint tended to seep into lighter papers, and true art didn’t need smears.

Smiling contentedly, she pinned the art to her wall, swaying a bit as her drain took its toll.  “I wonder if they’ll like this one?” she asked herself with a grin, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead.
“I do.”
The voice cut through her reverie, with a gentle edge, like her paint running over her tools.  A man stood there at the entrance to her workshop, one she had never seen before.  He was a solidly-built fellow, too, a bulge of muscle along his arms tugging at the crimson fabric of his suit.  A symbol she had never seen before was emblazoned on his breast pocket, with a small red flower – one of hers, she realized – stuck in the buttonhole.
Her brow furrowed, as she tried to place the voice.  “Oh!  You’re the fellow who asked me that question… do you like my answer?”
“I do.  It pleases me greatly,” he confessed, crossing the barren concrete floor.  He paused beside her, and joined her in regarding the magnificent flower in silence.  “I have longed to witness such a perfect flower… for a very long time.”  He turned his gaze down to his companion the florist, and his eyes narrowed.  “You are weary?”
“Quite,” she admitted.  “I’m not getting any younger.”
“Nonsense,” he scoffed, “any young lass would be tired after such a masterwork.  Here,” he said, lifting a small pot of fresh paint from the work table and offering it to her.  “Drink deep.”
She took the pot with a grateful smile, downing the slowly-clotting paint with a wince.  That taste was not very nice at all.

“Not to your liking?  Well, don’t fret.  I’m sure our dear father will find something nicer for you to have, when we go and see him,” the main said, finishing off the pot with a *smack* of his lips.
“Oh, my…do I get to see him?” she asked, flattered at the honor.
“Of course!  All who serve him so well do.  In fact,” the man said, cocking his head to the side, “I suspect his heralds are already on their way.”
“Oh, my, I’m in no shape for this,” the florist said bashfully, scrubbing the rest of the paint off her hands.
“Fear not, my dear, for our master is a talented painter himself,” the man confided, leaning towards her, nodding conspiratorially.  “He’d be quite pleased to see you as such.”
“Why sir, you flatter,” the florist said, blushing faintly.  The faint sounds of some sort of commotion outside her shop reached her ears, as he gently took her by the hand and guided her back into the shop.  As they reached the doors, the man stopped, looking down at her sternly.
“Now, my dear, I must warn you, this world is full of philistines and charlatans, men and women who know nothing of art, nothing of the skills a true painter can bring to bear to truly… capture their subject.  You may well have some hecklers.”
“Oh, you’re a dear, but I’ll be all right,” she said, curtseying out of politeness.  “I’m sure I’ll be fine, if you’re here with me.”
“I imagine so,” the man said, rolling her final flower painting, her masterwork, into a tiny paper tube and sealing it with a wax ball.  “Shall we?”
“We shall,” she replied, and she pushed the door of the shop open.

The world looked a bit different, she noted as soon as she stepped outside.  The sky was… brighter, somehow.  That wasn’t all, though.  It seemed to be a slightly nicer shade of red than she remembered it being.
The commotion, it seemed, had been a group of those ruffians from down the street, the ones who had slashed her tires a few months ago, screaming at the top of their lungs.  A group of Arbites Enforcers were chasing them down, desperately trying to reach them, and, she hoped, beat them into a pulp.  Across the way, a pack of minor Ecclesiarchs were pointing at the sky and gabbling on in High Gothic, and though she attended chapel as often as any other woman her age, she couldn’t quite make out the words.
“Dear, whatever is the matter with people these days?” she asked in a huff, as her friend guided her away from all the mess.
“I do not know, my dear.  Some people simply can’t leave an artist in peace,” he said.  They stopped at the end of the road, as both people trained their eyes to the sky, just as several blocks of something bright blue slammed into the earth with a horrible *boom*, several kilometers away.
“Goodness!  Did a ship crash?!” the florist gasped.
“No, no, those are just some philistines, here to ruin our day.  I shall deal with them.  I trust you know where to go?” the man said, his features hardening, changing in some way she had never seen.
“I… I think I do,” she said, the knowledge filtering to the top of her mind.  The man took off at a leisurely pace, off to where the blue metal things had slammed into the ground.  She headed off in the other direction, though, to where she knew her art would be most appreciated.

She arrived at the town square, which had also been redecorated.  The huge statue of Sanguinius was gone, as was the smattering of stalls and carts on the outskirts.  In their stead was a…she gasped.  It was almost too beautiful to see.
A flower, more flawless and lovely than anything she had ever seen, had been sketched in bright red paint on the ground.  A group of paint-covered men and women were adding the finishing touches now, she saw, overseen by another person she had never seen before, in the same outfit as the man who had visited her before.  He snarled at one, flicking his fingers at her performance.  She screamed, once, briefly, and vanished, a huge blob of red paint appearing where she had stood, and the other painters hesitantly drew paint from the blob, finishing off the huge flower.
The man turned to the florist, and his features relaxed.  “Ah, my dear, there you are.  Do you have your flower?”
“I… I do, sir,” she said, “but I’m afraid it’s nowhere near as good as yours is.”
“Oh don’t be a silly, girl,” the man chided gently, lifting the flower in its tube and carrying it delicately over to the very center of the flower his servants had drawn.  “I can’t finish mine without yours!”
“Oh?”  The flower, she noted, was incomplete.  The center wasn’t drawn, a square of empty concrete right in the middle.  “Oh…I see.”
“Then, please, my dear, finish your masterpiece,” he said, gesturing grandly.  She timidly unrolled her artwork, smoothing it out with her scarred fingers, and placed it in the center of the massive flower.
For a moment, nothing happened at all.

Then, the man did something odd.  He lifted a chunk of concrete from the toppled statue and rammed it through his palm, spilling paint onto the ground, and slammed his hand into the very center of the huge artwork.  Before the florist could even gasp, a horrible tearing sound echoed from the sides of the buildings around the square.  A rip in the air appeared, right over where the man had been standing.  He hastily stood and ushered the florist away, watching the rip with baited breath.
A creature emerged, easily towering over the traffic lights around the square.  The huge thing turned to the painter and her compatriot, skewering them both with its endless, hellish gaze.  “Who is it who seeks the blessings of Khorne?”
“It is I, your Lordship,” the man said quickly, raising his impaled palm, beaming a grin.  “We have called you hear to pass judgment on this world.”
“Oh, ‘we’ have, have ‘we?’” the creature asked, summoning a massive blade from the aether.  “I do not see your work, here.”
“My… Lord?  It is I who crafted this summoner’s rent, I and my colleagues, your most devout worshippers-”
“YOU HAVE NOT!” the creature roared, nearly deafening the florist.  “You have done NOTHING!  You, who scrabbled about casting your spells, you who take credit for the works of others, you are nothing more than a PETTY LITTLE SORCERER!”
“But… you would not be here at all if it were not for me, your Lordship!” the man wailed, sudden fear draining him of all color.
“AND I WISH I WERE NOT!” the creature roared… then paused, sighting the florist.  “Who is this?”
“This, my Lord, is the caster who created your entrance to the materium!” the man said hastily.
“YOU LIE!” the thing roared, bisecting the man with a single sweep of his blade.

Paint spilled forth from the man, pouring over the florist, who stood rapt, staring at the creature.  “You… flower-girl… you are no caster.  You are no sorcerer… but you ARE an artist.”
“I am, sir,” she said, nodding slightly.
“You stand bewitched… ensorcelled by these PARASITES!!!” the creature roared, sweeping his blade about, cleaving the screaming painters.  Sounds of battle became audible over the clamor, distant flashes of light and sound.  “I… will not tolerate this.”
“Sir?” she asked, bewildered.
“You have the taint of sorcery upon you, yes… and the smell of EXCESS, that perfectionist weakling… but I see also the love of your paint, your subjects… the process.  Yesssss….” the creature hissed thoughtfully.  “The taint is not yours.  You… shall serve the Blood God.”  Before the creature could say another word, an explosion rocked the edge of the square, casting bits of people and buildings about.  Several massive, armored angels sprinted into the square, killing what few painters and servants remained.
“Insects are upon us, it seems,” the creature said, and a cascade of blue fire washed out of his mouth, cooking one angel to a crisp, even as the others sighted him, and fired their weapons.  “But see… they have paint within them too.”
“They… they DO!” the woman exclaimed with delight.
“Then come, and we shall see what works you create for your Master,” the creature said, carelessly dispatching another angel with his great blade.
“Are you not the Master, Lord?” she asked in surprise.  Certainly the splashes of paint he was creating had their own artistic appeal.
“I am among his servants… and you shall be too,” the creature said, suddenly stopping his battle, and casting a red light over the girl.

She watched her hands, fascinated, as they grew and grew.  The ground seemed to recede as she grew taller, and an indescribable feeling of conquest and desire spread through her, invigorating her tired flesh.  Her clothes burst, as massive, scaled wings erupted from her back, and the world around her grew more vivid, more beautiful, with each passing moment.  Claws – they looked so much like her tools! – sprung from her hands, as veins of fire spiraled around her naked body, scorching the concrete below.  Her legs bent and warped as hooves replaced her feet, and one of the angels started yelling.
“THERE!  The witch transforms!  Kill her now before she becomes-”
“Becomes what?” the girl asked mildly, sweeping her new claws forward, rending a massive gash across the angel’s front, spilling black paint from within.  The paint sizzled and popped on the concrete, eating it like acid.  “I rather like this… new perspective.”

“I knew you would,” the creature said darkly, lifting another angel overhead and ripping him in half, letting the sizzling black blood pour over the ground.  “Now, you serve the Master, girl, as one of HIS Maidens, and you shall paint this galaxy with the blood of his enemies… and they are legion.”
“Yes… yes I will,” the florist said, enjoying the rapturous feeling of paint cascading over her hands as she lifted the last of the painters and drove her claws into his flesh.  “This galaxy needs a new… coat of paint…” she said, before a fit of laughter overtook her.  The flesh of her stomach and breasts shriveled up, hardening into a lattice of chitin and scale, off of which the bolts and lasers of the angels bounced, without doing harm.
“COME THEN, MAIDEN OF KHORNE!” the creature roared, backing into the rift.  “COME!  SPILL BLOOD FOR OUR BLOOD GOD!”
She nodded happily, following the creature into the rift, the surviving angels firing uselessly after her.  “Blood for the Blood God… and the Master of our art.”