His light is everywhere.
It spills across all other nows. It bleaches the pulped battlescapes of Terra into whiteness. It catches the lines of Valdor's wargear, and glints on the harder edges of his too-transformed thoughts. It slowly eats away the shadow under the red wall where Dorn shelters, talking to himself. It burns the soul of Sanguinius, though he is buried deep in a lightless crypt.
It is the light that casts the shadow of the Dark King.
I try to speak. I still cannot. The steadfast light is everywhere, permeating every now that was and could be. In one, ancient, inhuman creatures pause in their work, look up from half-built devices of intricate complexity, and shield their eyes against the rising glare. They start to wail.
In another, the world is without form, and void, and darkness moves upon the face of the deep, and the steadfast light says let me be, and it is.
In another, and another, and an infinity of others, there is only light, and its anthesis has burned everything away with its unholy intensity.
Only in one now, a gloomy and decaying now, does the light not penetrate. It is a realm of shadows and candlelight, a grim darkness of ruin and disrepair, where men are shackled by ancient duties, imperfectly remembered but obsessively performed, where lamp-glow flickers off the flaking gilt of past glories and the faded majesty of once-proud emblems, where the functions of machines and the purposes of humans are forgotten, or misunderstood, and have been reduced to rote, and ceremony, and rite, a now where everything, including the meaning of life, has become no more than rehearsed tradition and meaningless ritual.