Hatred was a powerful force.
Hatred—a simple set of syllables, no matter the language. No matter what tongue you used to say it, it seemed short and forceful. The intelligent races of the galaxy shared a common concept of it: hatred had to be intense.
Mortarion was no exception.
He hated many things. He hated why he had fallen on Barbarus, hated why he had been found and raised by xenos, hated his brothers' neglect of him, and hated those people's criticism of his appearance. On that long list of hatreds, there was probably only one person he hated most.
But what was the reason?
He convinced himself it was because of that man's neglect, his contempt and coercion. On Barbarus, some force had compelled him to kneel. That man had looked down at him with a halo above his head, clad in dazzling golden light, his voice utterly devoid of emotion.
Was that really how it had been?
For the first time in ten thousand years, Mortarion began to doubt his own memory. Some things, once cracked, would never heal again. Doubt began to multiply without end like cancer cells. The pale-faced Barbaran in the hood knelt on the ground, the shape of his soul rippling in waves like a calm lake struck by stones.
"I did not deceive you."
Beside him, The Man in the Black Robe's voice came calmly. "I rarely deceive others. Compared to outright lying, I prefer using vague language or behavior to mislead people. One lie needs hundreds, thousands more to cover it. The loss outweighs the gain."
A bitter wind howled in from afar, echoing through this quiet world. Mortarion's hands gradually clenched tight. He failed to grasp anything.
After a long while, he asked.
"Why...?"
"Why?"
The Man in the Black Robe's