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You are not quite sure how it began. Unlike most serfs in the Imperial Palace, you were not born into it and so you were not indoctrinated with the favouritism and bone-deep loyalty that they were. As a result your views and opinions were a little different from theirs. Perhaps that is where it began; the differing mind to those of others.
It's certainly the reason that seeing Him for the first time left you gobsmacked and awestruck like few others.
Certainly, you had heard of the Master of Mankind, the great Emperor, it was quite difficult not to. But you had never seen Him before, never witnessed Him in full splendour, up close or otherwise. You had never been to the parades, never been there when He returned from some grand battle and victory, never been there when He declared new visions to the citizens of Terra. Why? Because you were always busy, always doing this, always doing that, always, always, always. That, and you had lived nowhere near the Imperial Palace, so all you had were second and third-hand accounts; retellings from acquaintances and blurry pict-feeds.
And you had never bothered more than that.
Well, until a series of events, that now seemed so far away and so unimportant, had led you to the metropolis-wide complex of the Imperial Palace for the first time. Its golden buildings and white towers were truly amazing to behold but those were not what held your attention as you muscled your way through the gathered crowd.
It was Him. You could hear Him. He was speaking somewhere, and you could hear the echoing voice of the Emperor somewhere up ahead.
It sang in your heart, in your mind, reverberating as though He was standing right in front of you, speaking, clear as day. And you needed to see Him. Just a glimpse. You passed by giant statues featuring His countenance but they were hollow, empty things and held no interest for you. Marble and metal were nothing in comparison to flesh and blood, and you needed to see Him.
The crowd moved as you moved through it, parting in places to let you pass, content to stand around themselves and listen to His word as He proclaimed something or other. You only heard the voice, not the words. A calm baritone washing over any worry or concern, soothing away the tides of anxiety and doubt. A gentle embrace of words, of promises, of love. You needed to see Him.
It was a desperation, as though the very vision of Him was something you needed to exist, as though seeing Him would fulfil some innate purpose you had never felt before, never known you had. You absolutely, positively, without a doubt, needed to see Him, and only Him, His true visage and not the picts, the statues, the portraits, the murals. All were empty without His presence.
The swim through the sea of people was arduous, a long journey against the crowd and time, for how long would He speak? How long would He be in the public eye? You had to hurry, you had to see Him--
One person moved from your vision. You were struck to stillness. Your heart calmed, your mind eased, your eyes watered and tears ran over your cheeks.
You saw Him.
He was at least a mile away, most likely more, but He might as well have been right next to you. The golden light that streamed from His form illuminated your face even at this distance, like a miniature sun around which all these people revolved, including you. Just a lone satellite orbiting a giant, warm, calm star.
His eyes were upon you. He blinked slowly, calm and collected, an air of total control and ease surrounding Him. He could have easily been looking across the crowd with no regard for where His gaze landed and for how long, but He was specifically looking at you. You could tell. Like He had been waiting for you. Like He had anticipated your arrival, like He knew you would come. Like it had been fate, a complete and utter inevitability.
You had felt love and devotion blossoming then. You had known exactly what to do once the crowd was gone and the Emperor of Mankind had retreated to the inner sanctums of the Imperial Palace.
It was only when the warmth had died away and a gentle patter of rain softened and wetted your hair that you snapped out of your trance.
That was the day you had decided to become a serf in His service.
It hadn't been difficult either. There was always room for one more serf to scrub the floors and clean the walls, to fetch this or that, to do menial work for little pay, and you were happy to do it all if it meant you would be but a fraction closer to Him.
It became so much more than a fraction.
That fateful day, that one special day, had begun like any other and nearly ended the same way, but for one deviation.
His voice in your mind, beckoning you. Not with words, there were no words to be spoken, but a hymn, a psalm, a call to follow. So you followed, walking the winding corridors and emptied halls, your form followed by the eyes of the Custodes. You were allowed to pass every door you had to go through, allowed to walk where He willed it. As though they knew. Had they been able to hear Him too?
Enthralled and willing, you never hesitated as you stepped beyond the thresholds, all the way into the most sacred chamber of all. His chambers.
The doors had closed gently behind you.
His hand had been outstretched for you in the gloom, the golden light dulled for your eyes only.
He had been gentle that night.
And the nights that followed.
This night is much like the ones that came before it, one in a long string of nights. How many nights? You had stopped counting, stopped paying attention to such a small, insignificant detail. All that matters is that you can hear Him again, calling to you in your mind, crooning your true name to the deepest parts of your being. A siren call too enticing to refuse. There is no hesitation as you climb out of bed and exit the serf's quarters, one step at a time.
You can hear music, the gentle ebb and flow of humming, of melodious voices reverberating along the corridors. Is it Him? Is it His work? A great possibility but not one you dwell on, for the sweetest music is the sound of His drawl in your mind's ear, calling you to Him.
The watchful eyes of the Custodes fall upon you as you walk, guarding the doors and entrances, protecting not only He but also you. Their eyes fall upon you not as guard-hounds waiting for a moment of weakness to exploit, but as sentinels caring for their charge. It is a warmth as you pass them by for you know instinctively that their orders come from Him.
You wear no shoes as you walk, only the tunic of a serf and nothing else, for that pleases Him and you are not one to argue such a point. If He asks, if He orders, if He demands, you would walk this entire length of polished metal and marble to His personal quarters naked and remain unafraid. You were safe here, walking these halls and corridors, clothed or otherwise.
The doors to His quarters hiss as they slide open, pneumatics gently granting you passage before closing behind you, like some great beast allowing you to pass into its lair. The relief when you see Him is immense and all other thoughts melt away like a cascade of water falling from your shoulders to pool at your feet, unwanted and forgotten.
He is seated upon His usual chair, lounging upon it without a thought or care, that inherent calmness of His nature seeping into your bones on a molecular level. His eyes stare at you barely open, golden lights flickering as He blinks. He smiles. His hand is outstretched for you to take. You do not hesitate and put yours in His. He is so much bigger than you, so much greater than you, and you feel no trepidation. It has been this way since the very first night.
He gently tugs you closer, aiding you as you climb up His leg to settle in His lap where His warm and safe embrace awaits, arms closing around you as settle against His clothed chest.
It is warm here, warm and safe, and you curl up like a child.
"Father..." you whisper softly. You can hear His heart against your ear, feel His hand envelope your head, fingers threading through your hair. Rationally, you know He is not your father. It is an impossibility that gnaws at your heart, tears a hole, and leaves behind no solace. Rationally, you know He could never be your father.
Rationality has no place here. He hums softly, lowering His head down towards you, calm and kind, enveloping you with the same blanket of tranquillity. He is your Father, your life-blood, your world, your duty, your orders, your one and only. Your breath, your light, your sun, your gravity. Everything. And you tear up once again, as you do every night, settled on His lap, enveloped in His arms, being cooed to by a voice that reverberates your entire existence.
"Hush, my child," He whispers. "I am here."
It soothes your soul, soothes the tears that threatens to fall, soothes it all down to a gentle thrum of emotion, a background noise for your existence. His voice hums again, a sweet tune that lulls you into complacency, into ease. Your limbs are heavy, your head fills with cotton, and you simply remain here, in His arms, as you do every night He so wills it.
You feel a kindness of a kiss upon your head, a parent's kiss to soothe as He folds Himself around you further, locking you away in His embrace, far away from the harsh world outside. Here, against His chest, nuzzled under His chin, head resting at His collarbone, you listen to the voice.
And you are calm. You are safe. You are loved.
His precious treasure.
The one child she couldn't take away.