It says critique requested, but dA loves to lie to you. Also the following was not written by me.
It had been, by Thureos' reckoning, two hundred and nineteen point four seven three solar cycles – Terran reckoning – since he had last slept under his own power. In that time, Thureos had learned much that he had hitherto been unaware of. For instance, it had been one hundred and seventy-six solar cycles since the crippling drowsiness had abated, and everything had become perfectly clear. One hundred and sixty-eight cycles since he had realized that speed was not a matter of exertion, but simple flawless movement. One hundred and forty-three since the Apothecaries had first subjected him to that hateful, blessed dreamless rest that their tinctures and tonics make possible. Thureos had long believed that sleep without awareness was a perversion of his sacred duty to defend the Materium without rest, but – he had to admit to himself, if only to himself – that he had not cared when, at long last, oblivion had come for him for those few incomparable days.
One hundred and twenty-seven since he had been separated from his Battle-Brothers and sequestered away with the rest of his...kind. One hundred and ten since he had realized that the Emperor did nothing without a purpose and that this too was a kind of strength; that he could stand sentry while his other Brothers fulfilled their duties in the Immaterium. One hundred and eight since he had first started lashing out at the walls and the bulkheads, begging for respite. He did not like to remember that. It was weakness on his part, as Brother-Chaplain Chaeronius and Brother-Apothecary Hipparches had explained to him in the gentlest of tones; as a Battle-Brother of the Emperor's Nightmares – no, as a Space Marine – there was no room for weakness. Ninety-seven since the Apothecaries had last tried to sedate him, but this time it had not worked and rest eluded him still.
Ninety-two since he had finally stopped screaming at the walls and had accepted his lot.
Since then, things had become more lucid still for Thureos. All of his proud Chapter had reflexes beyond compare, but it had been eighty-four cycles since Thureos realized that his alacrity outshone even theirs. Nothing escaped his notice, now – even the most minute detail screamed like a dying man to his ever-roving eyes. Eighty cycles since his first revelation on speed had been deemed inadequate, and the awareness that there was no pause whatsoever between intention and motion. As he willed, so his enhanced body had already shifted.
Seventy since he had last participated in a combat drop. Time had flowed like blood, then. And with that, deeper understandings were forthcoming.
Fifty since the Materium and Immaterium began to overlap. Forty-seven since walls were no longer walls and that even his blessed boltgun was no longer a boltgun, but merely his hatred for the mutant, the witch, the traitor, the xenos, and the heretic made manifest. Forty-three since Brother-Apothecary Hipparches had taken away his boltgun, telling him so very patiently that it would be returned to him when next he, Brother Thureos, would face the enemies of the Emperor. If only Hipparches knew. Thirty-seven cycles ago had been a thousand eternities ago and he would live forever because he could not die until the Emperor's work was complete. Thirty-five since he had removed his eyes because he knew that they were blinding him. Thirty-three had been when they had begun forcibly restraining him, which was futile because Thureos knew all the secrets of fluidity and nothing could hold him back. Twenty-nine had been his first escape, and he had nearly choked the life out of that daemon stalking the hallways of the battle-barge. He had torn out the twin hearts of that malevolent beast before his Brothers had dragged him away forcibly, none willing to match his gaze.
Twenty-five cycles ago, Thureos knew that the Emperor had granted his wishes and he now walked within dreams and reality. He had known all along that the Emperor had not forsaken him, and that this test served only to temper his will. Truly, he could now serve the Emperor as a Nightmare was supposed to. Twenty since they had moved him from his previous bindings to this new, quieter location – where he could find rest, Hipparches told him. But Hipparches still did not know that he, Thureos, needed no rest; the Emperor had decreed that he would stand watch eternally over all approaches, and so he would. Nineteen point eight eight since he had decried himself for unbecoming thoughts regarding Brother-Apothecary Hipparches. Had Hipparches not always regarded him with the most scrupulous and careful attention?
Eighteen since he had counted every rivet in every sub-panel in his new resting chamber. Seventeen since he had counted the stars outside the resting chamber because the resting chamber was all there was and it was sailing through the Warp to deliver him to his next battle where he would finally destroy that blasphemous Eye and all the vileness within it because it was the Emperor's will and none may gainsay His Most Divine Purpose. Sixteen since the chamber had disappeared and it was just Thureos amidst the infinite universe, all that there was between everything that ever was and nothing that ever would be.
Fourteen since Chapter Master Randolphus had talked to him and said that Thureos had a high doom before him still. Truly, Master Randolphus speaks with the Emperor's Grace.
Eleven since he wished to taste the blood of the foe upon his lips once again. It had been so long since he had last seen battle. It was inappropriate for a Battle-Brother of his stature to go so long without reciting the Rites of Battle and the Canticles of Malediction. When would Hipparches give him his boltgun back? He was the boltgun and the boltgun was he; Hipparches had no right taking his hands from him like that.
Nine since time had stopped. Eight since it had started again. Eight since it stopped again. Eight since it became irrelevant because there was only the Emperor – and Thureos, his ever-faithful blade of vindication. Eight since the laughing had started. Three since it had stopped because it could not continue because there was nothing left to continue with. Two since he had decided that it was eight that it was twenty that it was nineteen thousand six hundred and fifty nine point eight eight four three point eleven. One since, once again, he had slipped his bonds again and was again stalking the halls of the Dream-Waking, hunting its monstrous denizens so that they could not harm his beloved, beloved Battle-Brothers.
Zero point twenty-three since he had snapped the neck of the first one and had laughed at how the pitiful foe had simply stood there as Thureos shattered its reinforced torso with a million strikes at once. Zero point twenty-two since the Emperor had told him that the Dream could only be stopped by destroying the Gellar Field. Zero point nineteen since he had told Brother Hipparches that he would never understand. Zero point eleven since he had prayed in the chapel for the Emperor's guidance. Zero point six since all matter became a single dot within the infinite flow of the universe. Zero point five since Thureos had destroyed that matter. Zero point four since the laughter had resumed even though everything was so dark and he could not see but he did not need to see because the Emperor had a plan for him.
Sighing heavily, Brother-Apothecary Hipparches of the Emperor's Nightmares withdrew his Narthecium from the base of what was once Battle-Brother Thureos' spine. Praise the Emperor, the dosage this time had been enough. He gestured to the Serfs accompanying him to collect the catatonic form of the Space Marine. He would be armed and armoured once more, and deployed in the next assault. It was the only remaining mercy for one as far gone as Thureos. As the eyeless body was moved away, Hipparches leaned in to the ear of his former brother and whispered.
“Dream, Thureos. Dream.”
Just so you're aware, again, that above bit wasn't written by me.
Commission for ~jareddm