51 Madmen and Embers (4k)

You smelled betrayal.

Its taste is so clear, so obvious. It represents utter infidelity, and how can you tolerate it? No, this is not an option. Traitors should die, you think, but you cannot act now, because the time is not yet right.

Yes, the time is not yet right.

Garviel Loken and Tarik Torgaddon Torgaddon are your offspring, and they deserve a more glorious death; they should die like warriors.

You must give them hope, for hope is about to become the most terrifying thing in the galaxy. You must instill fear in them, then despair in them, fill them with a death wish and hatred—that is what you need.

While it's hard to accept that your offspring will hate you, for the sake of the future of all humanity, there is nothing you cannot accept.

You laughed, a bitter laugh at your own thoughts. You stood up, then thought of other people.

The first thing that comes to your mind is Sanguinius and his wings. You miss the days when he used his wings to shield you from the sun, and you wait for him, but that wait won't be long.

You have transferred him and his legions to Signus, where they will face the truth. Sanguinius may or may not agree, but you will persuade him in your own way.

The second is Rogal Dorn. You always liked Rogal; you liked his honesty and integrity, and you even liked his stubbornness to some extent. These rare qualities and unbearable flaws made up Rogal Dorn.

Without a doubt, he is one of the best among you. Unfortunately, he won't be on your side.

Rogal had a flaw, you see, his flaw was blind loyalty.

He had made following the Emperor an instinct; he was almost like a puppet. It doesn't matter, you will find a way to free him from this bondage.

You laughed, you paused your thoughts for a moment, and walked out of your room. The mortals cheered in the Shadow behind you, their faces pale, their cheers barely audible, like the buzzing of mosquitoes.

It's strange, why do they look so pale?

You can skip this question; it doesn't matter, it's not even worth thinking about.

You continue your journey until you reach Fabius Bile Bile's medical room. Your brother lies there, with his only sane offspring. This is good, and the thought brings you comfort.

You walk in and see the disabled Fabius Bile Bile undergoing surgery on his knee. He is surprised by your arrival, but you gesture for him to continue.

You smiled to comfort him. You looked at his wound and spoke in a sad and compassionate tone.

"Who is it that you would commit such a heinous act, Fabius Bile?"

"It's alright, Warmaster," the Apothecary said to you, bowing his head respectfully.

He was in pain because he hadn't given himself any anesthesia. You saw this scene through the afterimages left in the air, and you also saw the killer. But you didn't say either of these things aloud; it wasn't something you needed to deal with.

The Warmaster should be gentle, but not too gentle. Let the Emperor's Children handle their own internal conflicts; they will understand your good intentions sooner or later.

You look at Fabius Bile Bile with approval, thinking him a true Emperor's Children. You step forward, pat him on the shoulder, and signal him to continue. You stand aside, handing him the instruments needed for the surgery.

This honor made the Apothecary blush. As always, you used a few small tricks to gain someone's complete trust. This wasn't Deceit; after all, you genuinely wanted to help him. It's just that you're different from others; you made this help manifest in your actions.

You remained silent until the Apothecary finished his surgery before speaking again, "How is my brother?"

You don't need to ask that question, absolutely not.

You know more about Fulgrim than anyone else; you're only asking this question because you're standing here.

You don't fully trust Fabius Bile Bile yet, even though you've seen his future and understand how important he is, you still won't trust someone so easily.

You look at him, and he looks back at you with his violet eyes, inherited from the phoenix. He remains silent for a moment before answering the question. During this time, you savor the silence, feeling utterly content.

You understand, Fabius Bile Bile has bowed his head to you.

"Our lord is recovering, Warmaster," you heard him say. "Our sacrifice was worthwhile."

Yes. Indeed. You smiled at him again and sighed, "Unfortunately, that's not enough, Fabius Bile."

"What... what do you mean, Warmaster?" The Apothecary immediately looked at you uneasily, his expression almost filled with fear.

You know that every word you hear from now on will be punctuated by a stutter. You sigh again, deliberately feigning sadness. You purse your lips and look sadly at your brother.

Your actions turned the Apothecary's unease into utter terror. He recoiled in fear and tumbled off the operating table. You immediately rushed to his aid, and without asking for his thanks, you swiftly began your explanation.

Some things are best done in moderation; the current level is just right.

"I regret to inform you, Fabius Bile, but I fear I must hasten the frequency of your brothers' battles. Fulgrim is suffering from something in his sleep, and only your souls and blood can help him find release."

You lie so skillfully, it's strange. When did you become so good at it? You're confused, and your words stop.

Horus Lupercal stared blankly at Fabius Bile Bile.

No, you don't need to think about this.

Really?

Of course, you're Warmaster; you're good at everything.

But I can't tell that lie; he wasn't attacked, he was receiving help.

Whose help?

Karyl Lohars.

Yes, that's right. You already know what it is, don't you?

He is a monster whose sole purpose is to cause humans and Xenos to kill each other. He is a brutal god enveloped in flames, and once he sheds the stolen skin, his true nature will be fully revealed.

But how hateful! Even from faraway Terra, he interferes in your affairs, as if it weren't enough that he stole your place among your brothers. However, this time he is destined to fail, for the gods are hindering your father.

How could he possibly accomplish something from such a great distance by himself?

But is that really what I think? I'm not that narrow-minded, nor do I believe he's a monster. Was what I really saw him?

There are no buts.

You look at Fabius Bile Bile, who awaits your response. You see fear, pain, and doubt in his eyes—you relish the first two, but are not surprised by the last.

You raise your hand to help him back onto the operating table. You place your hands on his shoulders, look at him sincerely, and speak slowly.

"It's true, Fabius Bile," you said sadly. "He's already begun to recover; we can't stop here."

"Alright, Warmaster." The Apothecary yielded, and you could see the tears of blood streaming down his face. You were in pain too, but you had to do it. It was a necessary sacrifice. You gripped his shoulders, forcing him to look at you again.

This time, you solemnly gave him confidence. "We will succeed. We will definitely make the phoenix rise from the ashes. Stand with me, Bile, and together we will heal him."

A few minutes later, you leave the medical room. You're smiling, though you don't know why.

It's okay, you'll find out.

--

"You killed me, Fulgrim," said Ferrus Manus. "You killed me so cruelly, and you didn't even feel any grief. On the contrary, you had a vile orgasm over it. You're a monster, Fulgrim, I hate you."

Fulgrim ignored the sound; the cold sea breeze blew past him. He continued forward, determined not to stop. The seawater engulfed his chest, icy cold.

A chilling joy pressed down on him from all sides, and he knew what it was—a primal craving, extreme pleasure, the limits of sensory stimulation. This joy tried to draw him in, to make him a part of it.

It first tempted him with the hope of escaping from this place, and then with the corpse of Ferrus Manus. It never stopped, and the seawater was one of its manifestations. It also showed him other things, such as the scene of him murdering Gorgon.

But that's not true.

Fulgrim stopped, raised his hand, and wiped his face. The seawater dampened his hair, and the gentle waves came slowly from afar, coaxing him to dive into the sea.

He lowered his head, gazing at his reflection in the water. It was a bewitchingly beautiful creature, unmatched by anything else in the world; those bright red, delicate lips looked so delicious.

Fulgrim laughed, raised his hand, and slammed it down, shattering the water curtain. He was still afraid, but another kind of rage was surging and roaring within him.

"How dare you slander me like that?" he asked the dark sea. "How dare you regard me as such a lowly creature? Listen to me, I am Fulgrim of Chemos. I may not be perfect, nor noble, but I will never draw pleasure from the blood of my brothers."

The sea did not answer, but only responded with a gentle wave.

"Shut up!" Phoenix roared, a frenzied hatred surging across his face.

He has been here for 172 years, and he keeps track of time by listening to his own heartbeat.

For the first forty years, he was oblivious and overwhelmed by the sights presented to him. In his fiftieth year, he suddenly remembered the past. He still didn't understand why he had arrived here, but he remembered what had happened before.

He remembered Horus Lupercal, and he remembered the battle. So he immediately understood that he didn't need to know where he was; he just needed to get out.

In his eighty-second year, he began to walk constantly. The sea level was gradually rising, and several times it even reached above his mouth and nose, but it never managed to drown him.

There were no reefs or anything else to hold onto in the sea, and the sky remained dark. It was a dead end; there wasn't even a horizon. Yet he kept walking.

In the 105th year, he realized that this was a desperate journey forward. This place wanted to drown him, to take him to the bottom of the sea.

But he did not yield.

There was no reason; he simply refused to yield. You could name any reason you wanted—his love for Ferrus Manus, his hatred for Horus Lupercal, his worries about his offspring.

His reasons for not giving in can be varied, or extremely simple, even as simple as just four words.

I don't believe it.

Yes. He doesn't believe it.

He couldn't believe he would stoop so low, he couldn't believe he would so easily betray the perfect path he and Ferrus had forged together, he couldn't believe he would just throw away the humility he had so painstakingly cultivated. He wasn't that kind of person, never had been.

"Listen to me," he said to the sea. "I am Fulgrim of Chemos, the third son of the Emperor, the Primarch of the Third Legion. I do not believe, I will not yield, I sever myself from you."

The seawater did not answer; how could it answer? The one who truly answered him was someone else, a voice, a voice he knew very well.

"Primarch," the voice called from behind him.

Fulgrim whirled around.

Tacitus of the Sixth Company, stood there. The stubborn sergeant, the sergeant who always had something to say, the sergeant who never bowed down to anyone, his body was wreathed in flames.

Pitch black, darker than night.

"How did you get here?" Fulgrim asked. He already understood something, and his sorrow surged like the sea.

"I am dead, Primarch," Tacitus said. "We are killing each other."

"Why?"

"It was Horus's request," Tacitus said quietly, standing still.

The sea began to boil, roaring in anticipation of his arrival. In an instant, the tranquil night began to transform. The once silent ocean surged and howled, the wind howled, Thunder finally appeared in full force, accompanied by lightning, no longer just for show.

Fulgrim was nearly thrown off his feet; had Tacitus not caught him, he would have fallen into the ocean. But even now, so close, he could no longer hear any of Tacitus's voice.

The latter's figure was interrupted by the crashing of the giant waves, drowned out by the howling wind, and destroyed by lightning and thunder. He could not hear any sound, but could only clearly feel a kind of pain.

The pain was real, unlike the illusory and confusing ocean; it burned in his hand.

Tacitus looked at him, his lips trembling and distorting. Fulgrim began to read his lips.

"They will come looking for you, but they are not the real Primarch."

Who? Who will come looking for me?

Tacitus did not answer; he vanished without a trace, as if evaporated. The storm showed no sign of abating, and the phoenix stood still, slowly clenching his right hand.

"Come on," he murmured. "Come, come find me."

His silver hair floated on the water's surface.

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