Some of the other Primarchs had not volunteered. Konrad Curze, for instance, had one hand each seized by Fulgrim and Sanguinius and pressed against the gate. The warmth from their hands made Curze deeply uncomfortable. After struggling to no avail, he gave up, his lowered face wearing a complicated expression.
Angron also pressed his hand against the gate. He wanted to leave as soon as possible and find somewhere quiet to stare blankly into space.
Mortarion looked utterly bewildered, copying the others like a puppet.
The gate no longer seemed so heavy. The Emperor, in the body of an ordinary mortal, felt a surge of emotion. For some reason, his eyes grew slightly moist, though not enough for tears to fall.
It was not perfect, but it was beautiful enough. Even if tomorrow brought the end of the world, the Emperor felt he could face it with peace in his heart.
The gate opened a crack, and golden light poured over them. The Emperor narrowed his eyes and heard some sounds behind him.
When he turned around, he saw the light passing through the gap fall upon the Golden Throne. Fine motes like drifting dust floated around that empty seat, forming the outline of an old friend.
"Malcador?"
The Emperor's lips trembled, but he could not say a word. His thoughts were suddenly carried back to a long time ago. Before he could say anything more, the Primarchs crowded around him and squeezed him out.
Oedmeir, who had detached herself from the Golden Throne's sea of data, stood beside the throne and watched the gates slowly close. She saw the complicated look in the Emperor's eyes very clearly.
It was truly heartbreaking...
Oedmeir sighed, recalling her father's assessment of the Emperor.
"Once every veil is stripped away, the one on