36 Mourning Funeral (I)

Angron was deep in thought.

He stood on the bridge of his flagship, his blue and white uniform neatly worn.

The War Hounds commissioned someone to make these clothes before they set off. They came from an ancient and renowned family of tailors whose ancestors were said to have made clothes for the Emperor.

The War Hounds didn't pay any price for the garment; the family, upon hearing that it was to be dedicated to a Primarch about to return to the Imperium, simply forgot all about it.

The garment itself is loose-fitting, yet it exudes a serious and elegant air, with the two colors complementing each other to create a balanced and subtle aesthetic. It is simple, but by no means lacking in sophistication.

Angron was usually quite serious when he wasn't speaking, but now, thanks to his clothes and the steel braids hanging down his back, his seriousness was forced to have something even more terrifying added to it—but the Primarch of the War Hounds didn't let this blur his expression; he still appeared calm.

"Grown ups--"

"--If you call me that again, I'll throw you out, Karelian." Angron turned his head, a smile that was less than gentle than usual on his face.

He looked at his gladiator brother, who shrugged and replied with a Nuceria proverb, "A beast will not lay a hand on a stone."

"I'm not some ferocious beast, and you're not a stone."

"I'd rather be a stone," said the gladiator. "I still feel dizzy looking at these big windows on your ship."

"You'll get used to it." Angron grinned, his voice hoarse, but his face remained calm. "These stars won't sting your feet like sand."

"Yes, but they scare me to death," Karelian sighed.

He stood beside Angron as a mortal, but without appearing subservient, and the Primarch didn't find anything wrong with it either. They talked like brothers.

Kharn took in the whole thing, then looked away and nodded slightly to another War Hounds standing guard by the bridge gate. The latter nodded slightly in response, and although neither of them spoke, Kharn could guess what he was saying.

"I don't understand Nuceria either!"

"Really? You didn't sleep a wink all night on your first day on the ship, Krest told me. She said you stared out the window the whole night."

Karelian laughed, and the gladiator rattled off a long string of profanities in a strange, affected tone, which made Angron burst into laughter—this wasn't Karelian's doing, but the doing of a dead gladiator named Korul.

He always talked like this while he was alive. He said it when he was being whipped, he said it when he was being beaten, he said it even when he was starving, and he still said it even when he was full. Except when he was sleeping, his mouth never stopped.

Of course, he has shut up forever.

But there are still people in the world who remember him.

However, after laughing, they all fell silent.

The gladiator and his giant brother bowed their heads, gazing together at the black metal floor of the bridge. Above them, a huge banner, stained red with blood from its blue and white color, fluttered slowly. Jill Baldwin and the other fallen warriors were lined up densely on it.

"That man—is he really dead?" After a while, Karelian asked.

"Yes," Angron said. "He's dead. Kharn witnessed his demise."

"Kharn?"

Angron turned his head and pointed with his thumb to the person behind him, in exchange for an answer.

Karelian fell silent again, and after a long while, he spoke again, "He saved you, Angron."

"I know."

"And those blue warriors— the Ultramarines, right? And them, they saved us."

"Yes."

"How many people died?" the gladiator asked.

"A lot," Angron answered calmly, a massive number flashing through his mind. The only reason he didn't say it aloud was because Karelian didn't understand the concept of that number. He only needed to say "a lot," and the gladiator would understand what it meant.

"They all died for us?"

"No," Angron answered softly, "It's for me."

"You are our brother. If they died for you, then they died for us too."

"It's different, Karelian," Angron said softly. "They are my offspring, their blood flows in my veins. They were cursed because they came to see me, and it has nothing to do with you."

"And what about him? That man named Karyl Lohars?" The gladiator looked up, staring intently at his brother. "His death is ultimately related to us."

Angron sighed.

He knew what his brothers and sisters wanted to do. They wanted to fight, they wanted Vengeance, just like they had always done in the past.

Slave gladiators were forced to fight anything in the sandpit—sometimes each other, sometimes dangerous beasts. To die at the hands of another gladiator was a stroke of luck, but if they died at the hands of a wild beast, they would not complain; they knew someone would Vengeance them.

"I know we can't help you anymore, Angron, and perhaps we never have. But we won't just stay on your ship and slowly turn into bloated nobles. We are still gladiators; we fought for honor and survival before, and we still do now."

The gladiator looked at his brother with a serious expression, almost a stare and a stern gaze.

Angron calmly looked back and shook his head. "Do you think I let you on board to make you nobles?"

"If we don't fight, we'll become just like those slave owners, trash," Karelian said with disgust. "We may be illiterate and uneducated, but we're not stupid, and we won't let ourselves become blind."

"We could see the difference between you and us before, so now we can see what your ship and your warriors really are. You are an army, Angron, and this army is made up of giants, such giants—"

He pointed to Kharn and the other War Hounds on the bridge.

"--They wear such iron armor and wield such sharp swords. And they all obey you, so what are you?"

Angron finally frowned and hissed in a low voice, "I will not become a beast like them!"

"But what about us?" the gladiator asked.

Angron was stunned. He didn't immediately realize what his brother was talking about. After a brief half-second, he began to understand.

"We believe you won't become that kind of person, but what about us, Angron?" the gladiator repeated.

"We are not like you. You can recover from any injury, you can take down those behemoths with one hand—admit it, Angron, you are our brother, but you have never been the same as us."

"I understood the first time I saw you. You won't become like them, but what about us? We are just gladiators, Angron. We must fight, we must remember who we really are, or we will forget. You invited us aboard, and out of brotherhood, we came, but you cannot ask us to give up the freedom we were born with."

Gladiator Karelian extended his right hand, four fingers together, bent, thumb extended, making an ancient gesture. He looked at his brother—a brother who was far taller and far nobler than himself—and demanded dignity in the most defiant manner.

"We must fight. Gladiators repay kindness and avenge wrongs."

Angron was silent for three minutes. Then he reached out and grasped the other hand, holding it tightly in the manner of a gladiator's oath.

Then he turned and called to his current Eighth Company Commander in High Gothic. Kharn strode over to his Primarch and glanced at Karelian through his eyepiece.

His Primarch slowly opened its mouth.

--

"I've added a new Auxilia," Angron said to the holographic projection of Roboute Guilliman.

Roboute Guilliman pondered for a moment. The holographic projection was incredibly lifelike; every detail of his face was clearly visible in the pale blue technological construct. After a while, he nodded. "Your brothers and sisters?"

"Yes." The Primarch of the War Hounds closed his eyes, braced himself against the iron platform with both hands, and sighed.

The bridge was now deserted. The Techmarine and crew from the Macragge's Honour had temporarily left, Angron politely asked them to leave, as he needed some time alone.

"So, you have something to say?"

"Yes," Angron said.

His eyes remained closed, his face trembling; the effects of the Butcher's Nails would forever haunt him, while Angron was beginning to grow accustomed to the lessened pain.

The holographic image of Roboute Guilliman turned around and made some gestures to those around him. After a while, he spoke.

"Then tell me, brother."

Angron opened his eyes.

"When did you realize that we were different from other people?" he asked with difficulty.

"That's a good question." Roboute Guilliman nodded thoughtfully. "From when I was a child—from when I would stoop to enter the classroom but still keep my head up."

He laughed, but the laugh wasn't serious; it was rather bitter.

"Actually, I've been constantly reminded of this. I tried to play with kids my own age, but they refused, saying I was 'big like a monster.' I was very sad then, but now I realize that to ordinary people, we really are monsters."

Angron didn't answer that question; he knew Roboute Guilliman was right.

"I understand this perfectly now," Roboute Guilliman continued. "If a commoner who knows nothing about the Primarch saw us, his first reaction would definitely not be respect."

"He will doubt, he will be surprised, he will even be afraid. Whether man or woman, regardless of education level. It is very difficult for them to understand and accept us, Angron. The common people will admire you, worship you as a god, even kneel before you, and call the things you have used sacred, but they will not walk with you."

Roboute Guilliman pursed his lips, revealing a sorrowful yet serene smile.

"Some have said that the Primarch is a flawless, perfect being. I don't know who said that, but I want to tell them that we are flawed too. We possess immense power, yet our emotions and reactions are no different from those of ordinary people. That's our flaw; we transcend ordinary people, but we must walk alongside them."

He looked up, and the holographic projection rippled. His voice became soft and ethereal, as if coming from afar.

Otherwise, we will become something terrible.

"To become a monster?" Angron asked in a low voice.

"No, it's worse than that," Roboute Guilliman said. "It will become a monster bearing the name of a god."

"Lorgar Aurelian?"

"."

Roboute Guilliman looked at Angron in astonishment, only to see the latter curl his lips into a smile. He then realized he had been tricked—the Lord of Macragge couldn't help but chuckle.

"Lorgar is not a monster. He is warm and kind. Although I don't like his beliefs, I respect him, just as he respects me."

"I haven't seen him yet, so I'll tell you whether I agree with you after I see him in person," Angron said. "As for now, how far are we from Nostramo?"

Roboute Guilliman sighed, raised his right hand, removed the laurel wreath, and wiped it clean. "We haven't conducted Warp travel, so judging by the travel time required between Macragge and Nostramo, we should still need about half a month."

"Four and a half months have passed." Angron crossed his arms, his expression serious. "And I still haven't figured out how to face Konrad Curze Curze."

Neither do I, bro.

Standing on the bridge of the Macragge's Honour, Roboute Guilliman sighed softly. He, too, didn't know how to face his brother, whom he had never met—"Nice to meet you. I bring news of your adoptive father's death. He died in a disaster whose cause I cannot tell you. We did not find his body, and we cannot tell you the truth. We are sorry."

And then what? Just an apology?

Roboute Guilliman closed his eyes in anguish, but what was done was done. There was no room for further argument.

He spoke again.

"I don't intend to meet him with anyone," Roboute Guilliman said. "He'll lose control, he definitely will—he might even try to attack me, and if any member of my legion were present, things could get very bad. This has become a serious political issue, Angron."

Are you still thinking about politics?

"I have to," Roboute Guilliman replied. "Otherwise, my reason will keep telling me one thing over and over again."

"What's up?"

Roboute Guilliman stared intently at his brother's holographic projection and slowly said, "I killed our brother's foster father."

Angron turned his head away and said nothing more, except for one sentence.

I'll go with you then.

Also, this chapter is 4k words long, so please vote for it.

It's almost the end of the month, and I was planning to just let things slide, but then I thought better of it. I'm only 300 votes away from reaching 6,000 monthly votes, and if I do that, I can start making some operating funds next month. Anyway, I'll get 10,000 votes today.