Light (4, Parts One and Two)

Fulgrim had thought he would see a city. Now, he realized he had been wrong.

He stood dazed atop the gloomy spire. His brothers stood beside him, just as he did, except for one, who crouched comfortably atop the stone gargoyle jutting out from the edge, so naturally that he seemed born to belong here.

The stench in the air and the gunshots rising from the streets made it difficult for the handsome demigod to suppress a frown.

He didn't need to turn his head to know that Rogal Dorn and Ferrus were expressionless, or that Lorgar was frowning as he pondered their father's command.

If they could endure it, then so could he.

"Konrad?" he called softly. "Where are we?"

"Quintus."

Crouched atop the gargoyle, his brother answered in halting High Gothic.

His words hissed, sounding hardly related to High Gothic, and his accent was still very strong. Yet his voice was gentle, with a strange air of familiarity.

Fulgrim pressed his lips together. Konrad Curze's tattered clothes made him look away. They couldn't conceal the young Primarch's extraordinary physique, but they represented something else.

"Chaos."

A calm voice spoke. "I can't see the slightest trace of order, not even bad order. Konrad Curze, why is it like this here?"

Fulgrim couldn't help sighing. He heard a calm reproach in Rogal Dorn's tone.

"Because the Great Purge is coming," their younger brother said. "Once every twenty years, Karyl says. Last time, things were even more chaotic than they are now."

"The Great Purge?"

"Yes."

"Have you never thought of doing something about it?" Rogal Dorn asked.

"Doing what?" Konrad Curze asked, his tone perfectly calm.

Fulgrim was startled, thinking their new brother was about to start arguing with Rogal—a common occurrence. Anyone who spoke with Rogal Dorn had a chance of ending up in an argument.

But he didn't want to see it happen to a child who was only a year and a half old.

Dorn, however, fell silent. After a while, he spoke. "...You don't know what you should do, do you?"

"I do," Konrad Curze said. "Karyl told me what to do."

"Why do you let him tell you what to do?"

Rogal Dorn's voice was still calm, but Fulgrim had begun blinking rapidly. He turned to look at Ferrus, only to find him standing with his arms folded, silently sighing.

Lorgar stood beside Ferrus. He turned his head without a word, and he and Fulgrim exchanged complicated looks.

No one spoke.

"Why not?" Konrad Curze said. "So far, at least, Karyl has always been right."

"You are a Primarch, Konrad Curze. You may not yet understand what that word means, but you will soon. You will bear a great responsibility, and that responsibility demands that you think for yourself rather than rely on a mortal."

"Karyl isn't a mortal."

"Yes, he's a Psyker, but that doesn't mean anything."

Konrad Curze rose from the gargoyle. For an instant, Fulgrim thought his brother would look angry, or show some similar emotion. If he did, Fulgrim would have understood.

But he didn't.

There was only calm.

He walked back across the rooftop, smaller than all of them yet entirely at ease, and leaned against a humming machine.

Then he smiled. The smile was stiff, even enough to make them wonder what lay behind it. But the Primarchs present understood.

They could see Konrad Curze's eyes, and knew there was no malice in them.

Fulgrim pressed his lips together, unable to understand how Konrad Curze could take Rogal Dorn's words.

If someone spoke to me like that about Colin—"Colin is just a worker"—I'd probably do something irrational, he thought.

"You don't really know him, Mr. Rogal Dorn."

"Call me Rogal, or Dorn. You don't need to attach an honorific to my name. We are brothers."

"Not yet," Konrad Curze said calmly.

"..."

The cold wind swept by, followed by silence.

Of course, it couldn't pierce the demigods' skin. In fact, the temperature could drop much lower without causing them the slightest discomfort.

And yet, in the cold wind, the towering giants all fell silent. Only the smaller one remained at ease, leaning comfortably against the Air Purifier.

"What do you mean?"

Rogal Dorn asked, then slowly frowned. His stern expression gradually blossomed across his face. Watching his features change, Fulgrim felt the atmosphere grow stifling for the first time.

Oh, this is bad, he thought silently.

"Not yet," Konrad Curze repeated. "You're his sons, aren't you?"

"Of course," Lorgar replied at once.

"But I don't know if I am," Konrad Curze said. "And if I'm not, then I'm not your brother."

"You can't not be," Ferrus said quietly. "The bond of blood, brother—can't you feel it?"

A pair of dark eyes looked over at him. The one being questioned slowly nodded, then shook his head. His smooth black hair fluttered in the foul air.

He was dressed in patched, tattered clothes, yet at that moment he was so calm that it seemed only right.

"How could you not be?" Lorgar asked anxiously, as if he wanted to prove something. "Father said you were his son—"

"—Not yet, golden sir," Konrad Curze said. "Also, I'm sorry for interrupting you."

Fulgrim almost laughed.

He had been watching their new brother's eyes, so he knew that Konrad Curze was genuinely sorry about it. He had interrupted Lorgar, called him "golden sir," and then apologized.

He didn't mean to, Fulgrim thought after his laugh. He's just that innocent.

"...My name is Lorgar. Lorgar Aurelian."

The "golden sir" spoke with some difficulty. "But, Konrad Curze, you really are his son."

He fell silent for a moment, then suddenly swept his arm out with heartfelt sincerity. "If you weren't, how could you be so tall and so strong? Your agility as you leap through the night sky isn't something mortals possess!"

"...Why do you all keep using the word 'mortal'?"

Konrad Curze frowned. For the first time, he looked displeased and confused. "I don't understand how you use it. Am I not a mortal?"

"Of course you're not."

Fulgrim began explaining gently, with such a mild manner that even Ferrus beside him looked surprised.

"You learned High Gothic on your own. You can see in the dark, ignore the cold, and endure hunger. And you were born knowing many things, weren't you, Konrad Curze?"

"Yes."

"Then you're not a mortal."

"But I can be hurt."

Konrad Curze tilted his head. "I bleed, too. I feel pain. Those are signs of being mortal, aren't they? It hurts to be hit by a Lasgun, and it hurts to be shot by a bullet. Doesn't it hurt you?"

For a moment, Fulgrim could hardly answer.

He fell silent, astonishment flashing across his almost perfect face. He lowered his head, and when he raised it again, his expression had changed.

Now, he was serious.

"We feel pain too, brother," he said softly. "We feel pain."

"We live here," Konrad Curze said.

He raised his hand and pointed to the small Rainwater Filter above the Sanctuary. A trace of happiness showed on his face. "That's a Rainwater Filter. It turns acid rain into drinkable water."

Rogal Dorn silently gazed at the dreadful structure before him. Some stubborn part of him refused to call the thing, cobbled together from rotten planks and sheets of metal, a house.

Then he asked, "May I go inside and have a look?"

"Of course!" Konrad Curze nodded. "But please be careful when you go in. You have to lift the door to open it. Oh, and please don't sit on that chair. It belongs to Karyl."

"...I will."

Rogal Dorn walked to the door. He studied it, pinched the handle—made from a bent, rust-covered piece of metal—between two fingers, then slowly lifted it.

Then he pushed it open and saw a gloomy darkness. It looked less like a home than a prison.

But darkness couldn't block Rogal Dorn's sight. He could see every corner without any trouble.

There were no furnishings inside, no soft beds, and nothing else that might make the place look even a little respectable.

The walls trembled in the wind. There were gaps in the ceiling, which meant it leaked when it rained.

It kept out neither wind nor rain.

Dorn silently looked at a corner covered with rags, then turned his eyes to a battered chair.

It was clearly sized for a mortal. At a glance, Rogal Dorn could tell what was wrong with it: its structure was unstable, so anyone sitting in it had to keep their back straight to stay upright.

That was unacceptable for a chair. On its seat sat a plastic tray, holding a black substance with a strange smell.

Rogal Dorn took a deep breath, gathering the information he needed.

"Is that food?"

He turned and asked Konrad Curze. Fulgrim was currently holding him still to measure his body, and he looked awkward, clearly unused to such close contact.

Fulgrim was no more comfortable doing it. He kept his lips pressed together, his expression complicated.

"Yes. Nutrient paste. Karyl eats it often," Konrad Curze replied at once.

"...It doesn't contain much nutrition, and it probably tastes like nothing."

"Right!" Konrad Curze nodded repeatedly. "Karyl says the same thing."

"...So you eat this?"

"Ah, no!" Konrad Curze blinked. "Sometimes I go out and catch rats to eat."

"...Rats?"

"Yes."

Dorn saw their new brother break into a proud smile, so clear-eyed that he nearly clenched his teeth. "I know twenty-three ways to cook rats!"

"Isn't there any more normal food?" Ferrus Manus asked in a low voice.

"Isn't this normal food?" Konrad Curze replied, puzzled.

"..."

Dorn lowered his head and asked no more questions. He turned and went to the edge of the building, gazing down at the scene below. After a while, he spoke again.

"What do the others eat?"

He asked briefly and calmly, then added, "I mean the gang members—the ones patrolling the streets."

"..."

"Konrad?" Fulgrim asked softly. "What is it?"

"...They eat meat."

Konrad Curze answered Dorn in a low voice. For a moment, he barely sounded like himself.

"Meat? What kind of meat?" Dorn pressed.

He was calm, but his hands were clenched. Clearly, he had already guessed the answer—or at least part of it.

"...Other people's meat," Konrad Curze said. "Civilians'. Workers'. But they don't eat their own, and they don't eat the nobles."

Fulgrim's hands stopped moving. He had been measuring shoulder width, a simple task for him, and had already memorized a great deal of information. But now, all those measurements were jumbled.

His usually steady hands were even trembling slightly.

"Emperor above," Lorgar Aurelian murmured. "What kind of place is this?"

"Nostramo," their pale brother said quietly. "Quintus, the Underhive."

Silence.

A vast silence swept over them again, easily bringing the giants to a halt. No one challenged its authority. Deep purple clouds spread and churned overhead, and the foul stench drifted through the cold wind.

Lorgar Aurelian began murmuring prayers. Ferrus Manus clasped his hands behind his back. Rogal Dorn remained as calm as ever, but his hands had clenched into fists.

Fulgrim stopped his fingers from trembling, gently brushed his brother's shoulder, and patted it.

"Shall we continue?" he asked gently.

"But, Fulg—"

"—Fulgrim."

"Mr. Fulgrim."

"No 'Mister.'"

"Fulgrim?"

"That's right, Konrad. Fulgrim."

"But I don't want new clothes."

"Why not?"

"Because I'll get them dirty."

Fulgrim heard his brother say, "Blood makes clothes very heavy, and they get stiff when it dries. When I move, flakes of dried blood fall off my clothes. If I wore clothes like yours, I'd get them dirty."

"...So what if they get dirty?" Fulgrim asked.

He didn't let himself sigh. He was afraid Konrad might misunderstand.

"Your clothes are beautiful."

Konrad turned to him and spoke softly. "Karyl told me that beautiful things are usually precious, and precious things should be treasured. Isn't that right?"

"Yes," Fulgrim said with a smile. "Precious things should indeed be treasured, so I'll make you something. Hmm, how about something more ordinary?"

"Something more ordinary?"

"That's right. Black, like the clothes you're wearing. But it'll be waterproof, so blood won't soak into it. How does that sound?"

"...Will it be trouble for you? Karyl says it isn't good to trouble other people."

"Of course not," Fulgrim said. "It's a small thing."

"Then...thank you?"

You don't need to thank me.

Fulgrim sighed and turned his head, meeting Ferrus's gaze. A similar emotion was churning in his brother's eyes. They exchanged a few glances and understood each other.

Lorgar was still reciting prayers, compassion filling his face. Rogal Dorn, however, turned and walked toward the Sanctuary. At the door, he stopped, bent down, and took out a chair far too small for him.

"You can't fit on that chair, Rogal Dorn," Konrad Curze said, sounding a little hesitant.

"I'm not sitting down," Dorn said calmly. "I'm going to fix it."

"Fix it?"

"Yes."

Dorn nodded and lifted the chair with ease, his strength making light work of it. Even so, he handled it carefully.

"It's just a minor structural problem. If there's any spare wood or metal, I can fix it."

"Um, there's an old, useless water purifier behind Sanctuary."

Konrad Curze blinked, looking utterly perplexed. "It might be useful to you. But why do you want to fix it?"

"Because I want to apologize." With his back to him, Rogal Dorn said this.

"Apologize?" Konrad Curze asked blankly. Fulgrim, behind him, looked even more bewildered. Even Lorgar stopped reciting scripture and glanced over.

Ferrus slowly raised an eyebrow.

"Don't be surprised," Rogal Dorn said, still facing away from them. "If you do something wrong or say something wrong, you should apologize. And the best way is to do something to make up for it."

"You've never done that before," Fulgrim said quietly.

"That's because I'd never been wrong before."

"Does that include saying Magnus's all-day reading was a psychological obsession?"

"Yes."

Fulgrim finally laughed aloud.

He patted Konrad Curze on the shoulder. "That's Rogal Dorn, Konrad. That's who he is. You don't yet know what his apologies mean. But believe me, once we've all met one another, this will astonish everyone."

"Number seventeen."

"Number seventeen?"

"Yes, number seventeen." The pale giant nodded. "I'm going to number them."

Ferrus Manus looked at the gargoyle.

They had leaped across spires and rooftops countless times by now, and Ferrus had seen plenty of gargoyles. To him, this one was no different from any of the others.

"You number them in the order you see them?" Ferrus asked.

"Yes. But some gargoyles don't have numbers. I don't want to number them."

"Why not?"

Fulgrim glanced at Ferrus in surprise, not expecting him to be so interested in the question.

"Um..."

Konrad Curze thought for a moment, then said, "Because they should have their own names, not numbers. I numbered those gargoyles because I don't know how to name them yet, but..."

He frowned and trailed off, seeming unsure how to express what he meant.

Fortunately, Ferrus didn't press him.

"That's true. If you treasure something, you should give it a name."

Fulgrim smiled.

The giant known as Gorgon gave him an impassive look, then continued. His voice was low but powerful.

"You've mentioned someone several times, Konrad. Kael Lohars. Could you tell us about him?"

Lorgar turned sharply to look.

"Um..." The pale giant thought for a moment and nodded. "I can, but I don't know where to start."

"What's he like?" Ferrus asked.

"...Huh?"

"Has he ever lost his temper with you?"

"No," Konrad Curze said quickly. "Never—and he's always apologizing to me."

He frowned.

"I don't like it," he said quietly. "No matter what happens, whether it's his fault or not, he apologizes to me. I don't like it."

He looked up at Ferrus, who nodded impassively, as if encouraging him to go on.

"Then... he's clever and patient. He tells me a lot of things, and he knows a lot, too. But he's pessimistic."

"He's pessimistic?" Rogal Dorn repeated. "Why would you describe him that way?"

"I can't explain why."

Konrad Curze shook his head.

"Kael is always pessimistic. He never says it outright, but I know what he thinks of Nostramo. Once, I told him this world was sick. He didn't argue. He just smiled."

"From that moment on, I knew he was pessimistic. He smiled because he thought Nostramo's sickness had no cure. He even wanted to burn the world with fire."

"But I can understand him."

"Workers in Shantytown dying of lung disease by the roadside, children choosing to join gangs and eat people, the meat sold in butcher shops, the miners, the nobles, and those drugs..."

His voice grew lower and softer, until at last it was almost a murmur.

"Those things caused him so much pain. He never says it outright, but I can see how sad he is."

"..."

In silence, Ferrus shook his head—he was never much good with words, and compared with his brothers, he was even worse.

He knew his own nature well. He was combative and stubborn. But those were only outward appearances. Among all his brothers, there was only one who could see how much he enjoyed overcoming difficulties.

That man called him Gorgon.

Ferrus didn't hate the nickname. He might even have liked it a little. He thought it suited him perfectly, just as perfectly as the warhammer Fulgrim had given him.

And now—the iron Gorgon lifted a hand and patted Konrad Curze on the shoulder.

"You saw his pain," he said quietly. "That matters more than anything, brother. Hold on to that."

His brother stared at him blankly—and half a second later, Ferrus Manus laughed for the first time, his smile full of nothing but kindness.

Above the demigods, the night went on.

I've seen quite a few readers asking for updates. The novel's usual update time is around five in the afternoon. If I update at any other time, I'm carrying on the Night Lords Legion's tradition.

Finally, a book recommendation!

Warhammer: In the Name of Nurgle is fantastic—plenty to read, an excellent work, and solidly written. Lately, it's been beating up Mr. Krabs. ()

One million words!

You're telling me you're not tempted?