'You were to take nothing from that place,' the Angel growls as he rounds on me. I have seen my father's wrath many times, at the height of battle, yet it has never felt this close. It has never been focused at me. 'Nothing.'
'We have all taken something from there with us, father,' I reply. 'Whether by our own choice or not.'
Sanguinius drops the blowing rod to the bare deck with a clang, nearly staggering back from me. Both of us stand there in silence, the moment dragging on an indeterminate length before I speak again.
'When we conquered civilisations and put whole worlds to the sword I sought out those ruins, those glimpses of tragic beauty, to place into here.' I point to the furnace. 'The idea that I was creating, within the grander creation of the Emperor's dream. But what do we have now? What do we do when all is ash and cold blood?'
The primarch does not answer, keeping his silence as he listens to me.
'You ask me to show you what I see, to search out the spark that unites us and will usher in peace for all mankind. But now?' I grind the heels of my hands into my temples, 'whenever I close my eyes, all that greets me is monstrosity. I hear their ragged voices in my ear, things we would not countenance to exist, that we trusted were myth and falsehood, and yet they live, and breathe, and confront us. You ask that I look inside myself, yet now all I see there is madness, twisting, swelling like a cancer that threatens to spill over into us. I see what my brethren did on Signus, what I did, and how easily we shed loose from our sanity. I no longer see the spark, father, only its annihilation.'
My body moves without my mind to guide it. I scatter the basins of material with a sweep of my arm, casting ground minerals and sand onto the deck. The furnace groans as I drag it to the ground with the booming crash of a cannon shot. Molten glass oozes from it like searing blood, hot as my own feels as it thunders through my hearts.
'Did He know?' I ask when I have recovered my breath. 'The warp, and the Sons. The Warmaster's rebellion.' My voice goes quiet as I turn to look my father in the eye. 'Why didn't He tell us?'
'I do not know, my son,' the primarch answers. I see that the mention of the Warmaster harms him as clearly as any blade could, and I feel that pain reflected within my own heart. 'Perhaps He sought to protect us, to find some way to deliver us from such darkness before it sprang forth to corrupt us and our kin.'
The Angel steps forwards, a gentle hand pulling me back from the spreading liquid glass. His grip lingers upon my shoulder, and he looks down at me with that noble countenance, still so effortless in winning my undying devotion.
'Whatever the reason He had for secrecy, it no longer matters,' he says with a strength I have not heard in what feels like an eternity. 'The path before us is clear. Mankind faces an enemy unlike any we have ever known, but no shadow exists without the light that shines to dispel it. We will stand against whatever dwells within the Sea of Souls, and whoever it has turned to its whims, and we shall destroy them.'
New resolve flows with every word, radiating out from my gene-sire. For a moment, the Angel looks like the primarch that I once knew, as though he has cast off the dark ghosts of Signus.
'Now we know the consequence that awaits us all, should we fail. As never before, we know the importance of our arts of creation and destruction, one a symbol of all that is beautiful and true that must be defended to our final breath with the other. Now, more than ever, we must summon our strength, and all of us shall start again.'
The Throneworld draws near. And with it the Siege, and Horus. After Ultramar, and the second Imperium we have all sworn to deny, a grim resolve exists amongst my brothers as our fleet cuts itself loose from the Ruinstorm. There is a sense of the irrevocable confrontation that awaits us, as we make ready to repay the treachery of those we once knew as kin.
For all his follies, the Ninth owes a debt to Guilliman, for the shipyards and skilful labour that have restored the Red Tear to its rightful place as crown jewel in our Legion's fleet. Without her, we may never have escaped the Ruinstorm, and reached the cradle of our species in time to stand beside the Emperor in defence of humanity's future.
It is still strange walking her halls. So much was lost when the Tear fell onto Signus, the destruction or desecration of priceless works beyond counting. We threw ourselves into the effort of winning her back to us, of driving out every last trace of the warp's taint from the flagship. Yet the traces of it remained, insistent against our efforts of annihilation.
I did my part, working in squads to comb every metre of the ship to purify her, burning out any corruption we found. And when that work was done, I turned from my talents for destruction, and worked to restore the Tear through creation.
Sanguinius is already there when I arrive, walking his regular orbit around a collection that now spans more than five decades, from the golden days of the Great Crusade through the darkness of Horus' rebellion, and now to the final days as Terra grows within sight. He watches me as I prepare and then set about my work, glancing at me in between plinths as I labour before the furnace. He is not yet encased within his suit of brilliant artificer armour, becoming the very manifestation of man's mythical angel of death. But the time for that draws nearer with every beat of our hearts.
The piece reaches a stage where it must anneal for a time. As I close the kiln, sealing it away, I have nothing left to distract me.
'Why me, father?'
I had not meant to ask, yet the words were spoken all the same. It is the question I have carried since my first day in this studio under the furnace heat, and every day after. Perhaps it is the sense of looming change hanging over me, of the great atrocity that lies ahead on Terra. The foreboding sense that if I do not ask now, I may never have the chance.
'What?' asks the primarch, stepping forward from among the plinths where he has been watching me work.
I realise, then, that the reason does not matter. But I am committed now. I have asked my father at last.
'Why me? Of all your Legion, why spend your attention here, through all these years? Surely there are many greater warriors, more skilful artists, better Angels than I.'
Sanguinius looks at me, his eyes telling me that he has been expecting this.
'Because you are the Blood Angels, Jehoel. I have watched you across these many years, the path you have walked, and as it has wound, so has that of my Legion. You rise, you triumph, you fall and grow stronger from it. Of the Legion, few embody its strengths, its follies and its dreams like you. Because, more than almost any other of my sons, I see myself in you.'
I am, as I so often am in his presence, unable to summon the words to speak. What could I possibly say in answer to such a thing? To have the primogenitor think of me in such esteem, it is beyond my ability to fathom.
'Now, let us see what you have made.'
'It is unfinished,' I hesitate, looking to the kiln. 'There is still much to do, details that have not been completed yet.'
'Show me,' he repeats, beckoning me over. I remove the piece from where it has been annealing, and after it has cooled enough to touch, I pass it to him.
It is Terra, but not the one that awaits us. Though none, perhaps save the Emperor, know the exact truth, I took the licence available to me and created my vision of the Terra that once was, before man turned his eyes upwards and made his first, tentative steps into the stars. It was a sphere of deep, boundless blue, indicative of the great oceans I read had once covered nearly all of her surface. Then the continents, irregular shapes of green and gold, with raised bands of the great mountains where the Emperor would one day build His palace.
Sanguinius rotates the globe in his hands, drinking in every detail. 'If only you could see this now, on the first day you worked under my eye.' The primarch smiles. 'The progress you have made, Jehoel.'
'But father,' I shake my head, seeing only the mistakes I have made. 'After all these decades, no matter my skill, the flaws still remain. I had hoped that with this, before we reached Terra, that my work might achi
eve perfection.'
'Art is not meant to be perfect,' says Sanguinius softly. 'It never was. The very pursuit denies our humanity, the promise to evolve and grow with each new day. Some believed perfection was within our grasp, that such a thing could be achieved, and look upon the path that it has taken them.'
'Without perfection,' I realise, 'there is no limit to what we might accomplish, so that our future is always ours to control.'
'You understand.' Sanguinius places the globe back within the kiln.
'When this is over,' I say, setting down my tools. 'When the Siege is won and Horus is defeated, will we start again?'
'No.'
The word stops me cold. I turn to look at the Angel as he stands in the doorway leading out of the studio. I am uncertain of what he means, but the conviction in his voice is ironclad.
'No, this time you will learn to make do with what you have,' says Sanguinius, his voice equal in warmth and in sorrow. 'Perhaps in the end, my son, it is an unfinished work that is the most beautiful of all.'
I had hoped to see a new civilisation being forged from the raw firmament. The name of the galaxy-wide endeavour - the Great Crusade - conjured images of victorious parades and the symbols of the Emperor being erected over compliant worlds. All I had witnessed was grey blocks being piled atop each other while tax collectors counted them. As a remembrancer I had been chosen to document these events for the future knowledge of humanity. It seemed such an awe-inspiring task, possessed of the subtle but magnificent vision one would expect of the Emperor of Mankind. It was not enough that the immense Empire of Earth be rebuilt; its reconstruction had to be seen by every generation hereafter that benefited from its existence, lest they forget the toil required to grow their paradise. But then the Emperor had not really been thinking about the 382nd Expeditionary Fleet. One of countless support echelon task forces that followed in the wake of the Legions and Imperial Army, the 382nd was a resettlement mission, comprising tens of thousands of civilians overseen by Terran bureaucrats, and guarded by a few warships and a regiment of the Imperial Army. In the two years since leaving Terra I had ample opportunity to record fields being ploughed for the first time, and foundation stones being lowered by future civic dignitaries, as well as no shortage of tedious speeches by newly embedded Imperial commanders.
When the ship, imaginatively tided Starhauler XXVI, readied for translation to the Vestogorn system I retired to my dormitory as was usual. I was not keen on warp translation, and it seemed that jumping out of the warp was more testing to the body and mind than entering it, though numerous others had assured me of the fallacy of that notion. So I took to bed to distract myself from imminent translation, reviewing a few hours of pict-feed footage I had recorded of the lower deck servitors securing the massive grain transports that had been loaded at Eldgharad Station - a tiresome task I had been postponing for this very reason.
The lurch from unreality to reality started in the depths of my gut and quickly spread up the spine. I felt the pricks of a thousand invisible pins in the base of my skull and tasted iron on the tongue. Even lying down I felt a surge of vertigo and rolled to the side, expecting to vomit. As ever, the actual physical act never transpired, and I was left groaning and retching for several seconds.
I lay on my back with eyes closed for several minutes, trying not to imagine the room whirling around out of sight. It was a product of the imagination, nothing more, but I couldn't persuade a rebellious stomach to see things that way.
A siren sounded, long and plaintive, the first time I had ever heard it. I sat up, bringing on a fresh wave of nausea, heart racing at the thought of what the alarm might signify. It sounded again, three short bursts this time. The chime of the personal address panel on the wall next to the bunk was a further surprise, another break from a routine established over thirteen prior in-system jumps. It was Lieutenant Khagashu, the ship's commander.
'Remembrancer Ares.' I always smiled at the formality of his address. 'I suggest you may wish to join me at the upper viewing deck.'
The link cut before I could reply, somewhat frustratingly. I was a passenger, not crew, so had no means to use the communicator to reach the bridge. Without anything further to explain the situation, I was left with only the option of getting up and venturing to the upper viewing deck.
On the way up the fifteen levels, I regained my equilibrium a little. I asked a few ratings and other crew that I passed what was happening. Most ignored the inquiries but one, cornered in a conveyor for three decks, furnished me with a brief response. 'It's a proximity warning,' the petty officer told me, her smile more forced than comforting. 'Not a battle alert or anything like that. Just some other ships in the system.'
'That's not usual, is it?' I asked, but the conveyor doors opened and she continued on her way without further answer.
The lieutenant was waiting beside the immense armourglass window of the upper viewing deck. He had a couple of young ensigns with him, carrying data-slates. He seemed agitated, shoulders a little hunched, fingers clasped tightly together in the small of his back. Small signs, but ones I saw immediately. The officers had stopped playing me at cards straight after they'd learned about my gift for interpreting emotion.
Khagashu turned, trying to relax, and brought his heels together, as though coming to attention before a superior. 'Remembrancer Ares—'
'Call me Ennylin,' I said, as always when he was so formal.
'—we have translated into an occupied system.' He examined me for a moment, brow creasing. 'You have not brought your pict-feed?'
I wanted to shrivel up at the implication of my oversight. Some remembrancer, forgetting to bring her recording equipment.
'Still groggy from translation,' I muttered.
'You shall want to be catching this, I expect,' said the lieutenant.
I looked at the window but all I could see was the local star - slightly fuzzy blue compared to our own sun - and the starfield beyond.
'We cannot see anything yet,' said the lieutenant.
'Why—'
'I like to come up here after translation, to feel part of the real universe again,' Khagashu told me. He took one of the data-slates and showed me the screen, on which was a graphic representation of a world, and orbiting above it were the courses of several dozen spacecraft.
'Another settlement fleet?' I wasn't sure what I was being shown. 'Has there been some kind of mistake?'
'These are Legiones Astartes vessels, Remembrancer Ares,' he said, touching a finger to the pad. An icon appeared next to each moving rune, identifying its allegiance.
A skull with bat-like wings to either side. My heart managed to both freeze and thrash simultaneously, blood rushing to my head while a chill prickled across my skin.
'The Night Lords…'
When the shuttle doors to the flight bay drew back, I wasn't sure what to expect. Stories of the Night Lords were scarce, leaving much detail to be desired but always possessed of a common theme. They were ruthless, if one was being generous. Amongst the remembrancers there was a rumour that the Night Lords Legion delighted in torture, that they took pride in the terror their attacks sowed.
And, if the fleeting exchanges with others at waystations and orbital platforms was any guide, the Night Lords' reputation had worsened since the return of their primarch.
So I was expecting some visual sign of this character when I stepped aboard the Nightfall, flagship of the Eighth Legion and throne-craft of the darkly-regarded Konrad Curze.
Instead I was struck by the mundanity of the scene. As well as the functional shuttle that had brought me across from the hauler, the bay was home to two gunships, their armoured hulls coloured in the midnight blue of the Legion. Various machines and banks of monitoring equipment lined one wall. I continued to survey my surroundings. One revolution took in the inner doors, the windows of a command cabin and its sole occupant - a bored-looking orderly in plain white robes - and then the great doors that had sealed across the bay.
<
br /> The hangar was otherwise empty. Certainly devoid of welcome, as much as it was free from grotesque trophies and intimidating decor.
'I'm getting the command to leave,' the shuttle pilot called from inside the craft. 'Are you staying?'
'Of course,' I told him. 'I asked to join the fleet, to see the attack.'
'You asked to come to the Nightfall?' I couldn't see the pilot's face, but his voice betrayed some shock. 'You want to be here?'
'Well, I didn't think I'd get invited to the flagship itself, no…'
It had come as a shock, and I had spent half an hour in my quarters hyperventilating at the thought, but I decided not to share that information. 'I suppose this is where the other remembrancers are stationed. After all, this is where the Great Crusade is really happening!'
I took a few steps further from the docking ramp so that he could close the shuttle gangway. With a hiss the craft sealed itself.
At the same moment the clank of a heavy lock drew attention to the inner doors. One swung inwards, revealing a chamber beyond the flight deck. The whine of the shuttle jets increased and I realised that the main bay doors couldn't open until I had left unless I wanted to be blown out into the uncaring void.
I hurried through the other door, almost running into the giant figure that stood within. I am considered short by most Terrans, and my head came up to the bottom of his chest-plate. It was blazoned with a winged skull, pale silver against the midnight blue. He wore no helm, his face seemingly proportioned oddly by my perspective, as a child views an adult, all chin with eyes close to the scalp.
It wasn't simply height that made him imposing, nor the breadth of his chest and shoulders - vaster than any person I had met. His armour buzzed with energy and there was a scent of machine and anger and death about him. My uncle had kept horses on Terra and I remembered being trapped in the stable with them once when I was small, overwhelmed by the sheer size of the beasts and the smell of sweat and manure. It was almost the same feeling, even though I was in a chamber several metres high and quite broad.
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