Interlude 61: Wolf, Lion, God (III)

For Leman Russ, he would never forget those days he had spent on Fenris.

Yes, everyone had a homeland. Yes, a primarch's homeland was all the more noble. Yes, a homeland was a place one had to leave, no matter how dearly one longed for it.

But Russ would not leave.

When migrating tundra oxen huddled together for warmth upon the winter snowfields, he howled into the wind; when one tribe raided another, he drank blood amid clashing weapons; when stars rose in daylight, when campfires stirred the cold, when malformed freaks and the bones of the dead that clawed out of the mud with spring's arrival stared at passing living people with hollow eyes, he was there as well.

No one could understand that feeling. No one. Not his sons, not his brothers—not even his father, who could only try.

Countless winters: barrenness, desolation, savagery, violence, and nightmares. The people who lived upon this land had to endure nearly all of it just to barely survive, and even then, they usually did not live long.

Even if they barely made it through one winter, they would be killed in spring by another group of people who lacked food and clothing. Then those killers would, in turn, be cut down by another starving band with axes or long blades.

A spiral.

Had no one tried to change it? They had. Of course they had. But all of them failed.

What about Leman Russ, then?

A primarch, one of the most exalted beings in the galaxy, wielding power beyond imagination. With a single order from him, countless people would come from every corner of the galaxy and reshape Fenris into a normal, peaceful world according to his will, would they not?

But Russ said no.

Leman of the Russ Tribe had